TIC* 


, 

I    • 


34  6  E 


I     ^ 


- 


I: 


In  Which  a  Woman  Tells  the 
Truth  About  Herself 


I 


In  Which  a  Woman  Tells  the 
Truth  About  Herself 


NEW  YORK 

D.   APPLETON   AND   COMPANY 
1904 


COPYRIGHT,  1904,  BT 
D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY 


Published,  March,  1904 


Is  it  possible  for  a  woman  to  write  the  truth  about 
herself?  It  has  been  attempted  often,  perhaps  not 
often  with  success.  In  the  belief  that  it  can  be  done, 
I  have  set  myself  to  write  what  follows  ;  to  write  the 
bare  truth  as  far  as  it  is  known  to  me  without  flinch- 
ing. It  is  not  the  portrait  of  an  ideal  woman  which 
results,  but  of  a  woman  of  the  world,  not  quite  the 
basest  of  her  kind  but  farther  yet  from  the  best.  Let 
those  who  read,  discern,  and  let  those  who  are  without 
sin  first  cast  a  stone. 


2136892 


"  If  it  be  indiscretion  so  to  publish  one's  errors,  yet  there  is  no  great  danger 
that  it  pass  into  example  and  custom."— Cotton' t  Montaigne. 


I  WAS  eighteen  and  still  a  child  in  emotions 
and  perceptions  although  clever  at  books,  when 
I  first  realized  that  my  mother  was  dissatisfied 
with  me  and  why.  I  had,  the  week  before,  been 
graduated  from  High  School  with  my  class, 
which  was  composed  of  boys  and  girls  in  nearly 
equal  numbers.  They  were  all  my  good  friends, 
but  better  than  any  of  them  I  liked  my  neighbor, 
Irving  Lloyd,  returned  from  college  a  Senior. 
We  had  played  together  when  we  were  chil- 
dren, studied  together  through  the  years  that 
followed  and  remained  good  comrades  and  in- 
timate friends  without  a  trace  on  the  part  of 
either  one  of  us  of  sentiment  or  self-conscious- 
ness in  our  relations. 

I  had  been  half  reclining  in  a  hammock  all 
the  afternoon  of  that  June  day,  idling  away  the 


CHAP.  I  [  2  ] 

warm  hours  as  I  felt  that  I  had  a  right  to  do 
after  the  serious  work  in  school  which  had  pre- 
ceded graduation.  The  hammock  hung  on  the 
secluded  west  veranda,  overlooking  our  tangled 
and  neglected  old  garden.  Irving  had  spent  an 
hour  or  more  on  the  steps  near  me,  pretending 
to  read  "  Adonais  "  aloud,  but  in  reality  doing 
nothing  most  of  the  time. 

My  mother  came  to  the  French  window  of 
the  little  library  and  stood  looking  at  us.  Irv- 
ing spoke  to  her,  then  presently  rose,  picked  up 
his  student's  cap  from  the  step  beside  him  and 
with  a  careless  good-by  walked  away  down  the 
grass-grown  brick  walk  to  the  gap  in  the  hedge 
through  which  he  could  enter  his  own  garden. 
I  put  up  my  hand  in  a  careless  attempt  to  con- 
ceal a  yawn  as  he  retreated.  Then  I  saw  that 
my  mother  was  watching  me  intently  and  there 
was  a  shade  of  annoyance  on  her  face.  She 
was  a  beautiful  woman  even  then,  at  forty. 

"  I  wish  you  would  pay  a  little  more  atten- 
tion to  your  appearance,  Sidney,"  she  said  with 
unusual  emphasis.  "  I  have  never  seen  a  girl 


[  3  ]  CHAP.  I 

of  eighteen  who  was  so  utterly  indifferent  to 
her  looks.  Your  attitude  as  you  lounge  in  that 
hammock  is  unpardonable,  and  would  be  even 
if  you  had  pretty  feet.  You  have  not  changed 
your  gown  since  morning.  It  is  tumbled  and 
untidy,  and  so  is  your  hair.  You  simply  can 
not  afford  to  let  yourself  go  after  this  fashion." 

My  mother  was  even-tempered,  languid 
rather  than  incisive  in  her  usual  speech,  but 
some  latent  feeling  I  could  detect,  was  gather- 
ing in  cumulative  effect  as  she  went  on  speak- 
ing. I  had  risen  from  the  hammock  and  stood 
facing  her,  respectfully  I  believe,  but  by  no 
means  penitently.  Something  in  my  attitude  or 
expression,  not  defiance,  but  ill-concealed  indif- 
ference, stung  her  to  sudden  sharpness. 

"  Sidney,  I  must  tell  you  plainly  that  a  girl 
who  is  not  pretty  must  take  more  pains  for  that 
very  reason  to  make  herself  attractive." 

She  flushed  as  she  spoke  and  I  saw  that  the 
words  hurt  her  far  more  than  they  did  me. 

"  But  why  should  I  care  particularly  to  make 
myself  attractive,  mother?  "  I  asked  with  per- 


CHAP.  I  [  4  ] 

feet  straightforwardness.  "  The  people  I  like 
like  me  as  I  am.  This  gown  is  really  not  so 
bad.  See,  it  is  perfectly  clean." 

A  strange  look  passed  over  her  face,  and  she 
sighed  impatiently. 

"  There  is  no  reason,  I  guess,"  she  said 
under  her  breath.  "  Every  other  girl  has  by  in- 
stinct the  little  graces  and  niceties  of  the  toilet 
— those  things  which  make  up  for  so  much — " 
here  she  broke  off  and  returned  to  her  work  in 
the  library. 

I  pitied  my  mother,  for  I  saw  that  she  was 
grievously  disappointed  in  me  and  keenly  stung 
by  my  deficiencies.  It  did  not  occur  to  me  to 
pity  myself.  I  was  a  happy,  homely,  whole- 
hearted, healthy  young  thing  who  had  thus  far 
never  waked  up  to  consciousness  of  the  losses 
and  crosses  which  a  homely  woman  has  to 
bear. 

I  went  slowly  up  to  my  room,  bent  on  dress- 
ing myself  with  care  to  please  my  mother. 
First  of  all  I  had  a  wild  rummage  through  the 
chaos  of  my  upper  bureau-drawer  to  find  some 


[  5  ]  CHAP.  I 

of  "  the  little  graces  and  niceties  of  the  toilet " 
which  might  redeem  me  in  her  eyes.  I  remem- 
ber finding  a  tumbled  lawn  fichu  which  I  drew 
with  some  care  about  my  throat  and  shoulders 
over  the  blue  muslin  dress  which  I  had  pro- 
ceeded to  put  on.  I  fastened  the  fichu  with  a 
small  pin  in  which  I  clasped  a  pink  rose  with 
considerable  care  and  some  pride  in  the  effect. 
Then  I  surveyed  myself  anxiously.  When  a 
girl's  mother  tells  her  in  good  set  terms  that 
she  is  not  pretty  she  has  reason  to  believe  in 
the  sincerity  of  the  utterance.  So  far  as  I  can 
remember  this  was  the  first  time  I  had  ever 
given  any  serious  consideration  to  my  looks, 
and  now  it  was  for  my  mother's  sake,  not  for 
my  own,  that  I  narrowly  scanned  the  face  and 
figure  in  my  glass.  I  felt  with  a  genuine  pang 
that  she  suffered  because  I  was  not  pretty  and 
piquant  and  pleasing  like  other  girls.  It  was 
a  shame,  when  she  was  so  beautiful  herself. 
Why  could  I  not  have  looked  like  her  instead 
of  like  my  father's  family?  It  was  from  them 
that  I  inherited  my  big  frame,  my  freckles  and 


CHAP.  I  [  6  ] 

dull  yellow  hair,  my  whitish  eyelashes  and  long 
nose. 

When  I  came  down-stairs  I  went  and  stood 
by  my  mother's  work-table  with  my  hands  be- 
hind me  as  I  had  done  when  I  was  a  child  to 
have  her  pronounce  judgment  as  to  whether  I 
had  washed  my  face  successfully. 

"  Do  you  like  me  now  ? "  I  asked  rather 
humbly. 

She  looked  up  and  then  broke  into  uncon- 
trollable laughter,  but  I  could  see  that  there 
were  tears  in  her  eyes  while  she  laughed. 

"  Oh,  Sidney,  you  are  impossible !  "  she  cried. 
"  That  prim  little  rosebud,  that  tired  old  fichu, 
that  conscientious,  anxious  look!  Never  mind, 
dear,  be  good  and  let  who  will  be  pretty !  " 

"  But  mother,  I  want  you  to  look  at  my  neck 
and  see  if  it  isn't  rather  good."  I  had  turned 
my  gown  away  at  the  throat.  "  See,  it  is  quite 
white  it  seems  to  me,  and  you  know,  when  I 
looked  in  the  glass  just  now  it  struck  me  that 
my  mouth  and  chin  were  just  a  little  like  yours." 
I  added  this  timidly. 


[  7  ]  CHAP.  I 

She  smiled  at  me  tenderly  and  looked  with 
a  certain  amused  incredulity  at  the  lower  part 
of  my  face. 

"  You  are  a  dear  child,"  she  said,  "  but 
plainly  Heaven  meant  you  for  a  boy." 


n 


I  HAVE  concluded,  in  looking  back,  that  the 
little  incident  which  I  have  just  related  had  a 
certain  importance  in  the  story  of  my  life.  It 
is  my  conviction  that  my  mother  definitely  con- 
cluded at  that  time  that  I  was  not  made  for 
love  and  leisure,  for  social  success,  even  of  a 
very  modest  sort,  or  for  early  marriage.  She 
therefore  decided  to  have  me  go  in  for  whatever 
distinction  I  could  win  as  an  intellectual  girl, 
and  accordingly  in  the  fall  I  went  to  college.  I 
perfectly  understood  that  my  mother  would  have 
preferred  to  have  me  take  the  other  line.  Her 
ideal  daughter  would  have  loved  to  embroider, 
to  practise  duets  and  read  poetry  or  novels  with 
her,  would  have  made  charming  gowns  for  her- 
self in  the  long  quiet  mornings  which  she  would 


[  9  ]  CHAP.  II 

have  worn  with  telling  effect  in  the  evenings, 
with  several  interesting  affairs  of  the  heart  al- 
ways pending,  as  a  result.  The  quiet  old  house 
with  its  good  mahogany  furniture  and  my  fath- 
er's paintings,  would  have  made  a  perfect  set- 
ting for  all  that  kind  of  thing,  and  my  mother 
would  well  have  fitted  her  role  of  matron,  still 
young  and  beautiful,  with  an  equally  charm- 
ing daughter  to  administer.  I  remember  I  did 
try  conscientiously  to  sew  and  embroider,  but 
I  had  no  knack  at  either.  I  hated  piano  prac- 
tise and  modern  novels  equally,  and  upon  poetry 
my  mother  and  I  never  could  agree. 

As  for  affairs  of  the  heart  I  had  less  knack 
at  them  than  at  embroidery.  Irving  Lloyd 
hung  around  as  he  always  had,  ready  to  take 
me  to  ball  games  and  tennis  tournaments,  but 
neither  of  us  developed  any  sentiment  beyond 
our  established  comradeship,  and  beside  him  no 
man  came  my  way.  I  remember  sometimes 
wishing  that  the  youths  who  clustered  around 
the  other  girls  like  bees  around  clover,  would 
sometimes  cluster  around  me  because  I  knew  in 


CHAP.  II  [  1O  ] 

my  inmost  heart  that  this  would  be  highly 
pleasing  to  my  mother.  But  they  failed  to  clus- 
ter. In  September  I  went  to  college. 

At  the  end  of  my  Freshman  year  I  brought 
a  classmate  home  with  me  to  spend  a  month, 
a  girl  whom  I  ardently  admired.  She  was  a 
Southern  girl,  Clarice,  and  I  had  written  reams 
of  description  of  her  qualities  to  my  mother,  my 
girl  friends  and  to  Irving  with  whom  I  corre- 
sponded steadily. 

The  night  of  our  arrival  I  had  a  curious 
sense  in  my  mother's  first  glance  from  Clarice 
to  me  and  back  again,  that  she  thought  my  valor 
greater  than  my  discretion  in  bringing  home 
this  delightful  creature  to  whom  I  must  inevi- 
tably act  as  a  foil.  My  own  feeling  was  that 
my  mother  would  understand  better  when  she 
knew  Clarice,  how  noble  and  true-hearted  and 
altogether  admirable  she  was.  I  was  full  of 
chivalrous  devotion  to  my  new  friend  and  sure 
that  every  honor  paid  to  her  could  give  me  noth- 
ing but  the  keenest  satisfaction. 

Only  a  few  days  passed  in  quiet  summer 


[  11  ]  CHAP.  II 

idleness  at  home  before  the  young  set  in  our 
little  town  awoke  to  the  discovery  of  the  rare 
and  radiant  stranger.  Clarice  was  not  only  ex- 
tremely pretty  but  she  had  marked  facility  in 
adapting  herself  to  her  environment,  and,  like 
most  Southerners,  she  was  very  versatile.  Her 
voice  in  singing  was  not  extraordinary,  but  she 
could  use  it  to  extraordinary  effect,  and  in  con- 
versation her  Southern  accent  was  declared  irre- 
sistible. So  also  were  her  eyes,  her  gay  abandon, 
her  multitudinous  pretty  costumes.  In  fine,  she 
carried  everything  before  her  and  there  was  no 
longer  any  lack  of  men  clustering  around  our 
house.  My  mother  was  often  silently  beaten  off 
the  scene  before  the  throng  of  Clarice's  ad- 
mirers, who  presented  themselves  at  all  times 
of  day  and  evening. 

My  part,  that  of  the  plain,  loyal,  serviceable 
friend  who  must  furnish  the  platform  and  stage 
properties  for  the  little  summer  comedy,  was 
clearly  indicated.  I  threw  myself  into  it  with 
tireless  enthusiasm,  dressed  Clarice  for  all  the 
parties  where  she  was  the  belle  and  I  the  wall- 


CHAP.  II  [  12  ] 

flower;  prepared  dainty  lunches  and  suppers 
for  her  adorers,  kept  out  of  the  way  at  the  right 
time,  drew  off  the  tiresome  people  who  came  at 
the  wrong  time,  and  kept  up  a  kind  of  Greek 
chorus  of  praise  of  my  friend  throughout  the 
performance.  That  is,  for  the  first  two  weeks 
and  a  little  more. 

I  do  not  think  I  was  an  especially  unselfish 
girl,  but  I  was  very  ardent  in  my  friendships 
and  I  see  now  that  I  must  have  had  a  somewhat 
unusual  capacity  for  self-devotion.  I  was  so 
very  proud  of  Clarice,  and  so  confident  that  no 
one  could  admire  her  more  than  she  deserved. 
All  the  while  my  right  hand  was  Irving  Lloyd, 
the  same  true,  trusty,  non-emotional  good  friend 
to  me  as  ever.  He  gathered  the  people  together 
for  picnics,  and  worked  up  all  the  necessary  and 
tiresome  details  of  our  various  festivities,  seek- 
ing nothing  for  himself  but  the  satisfaction  of 
helping  me  to  carry  out  my  desire  of  entertain- 
ing Clarice  worthily.  Indeed  once  or  twice  a 
spark  of  something  akin  to  sentiment  was  struck 
out  between  us  as  we  worked  together  for  this 


[  13  ]  CHAP.  II 

same  end,  his  efforts  being,  as  it  seemed  to  me, 
based  primarily  upon  his  desire  to  give  me 
pleasure. 

I  had  never  seen  Irving  alone  with  Clarice 
for  a  moment  nor  had  he  even  sought  to  con- 
verse with  her  as  all  the  other  men  vied  with 
each  other  in  doing,  until  on  a  Saturday  even- 
ing out  at  Mallard  Lake.  We  had  been  having 
a  gipsy  camp-fire  and  as  the  evening  wore  away 
and  I  was  collecting  wraps  and  baskets  for  the 
return,  I  noticed  Clarice  standing  on  the  narrow 
strip  of  pebbly  beach  under  the  shade  of  a  great 
tree.  Irving  was  leaning  over  the  stern  of  a 
skiff  drawn  half  out  of  the  water,  with  his  face 
upturned  to  hers.  His  eyes  were  full  of  ardor 
and  appeal,  such  a  look  as  I  had  never  seen  in 
them,  nor  supposed  the  fellow  capable  of.  It 
gave  me  a  strange  physical  sensation,  almost 
akin  to  faintness  as  I  drew  hastily  back  unseen 
by  either  of  them.  In  a  moment  more  Clarice 
sprang  into  the  carriage  which  was  waiting  for 
us,  half  a  dozen  hands  outstretched  to  help  her. 
I  had  taken  my  seat  already,  unnoticed  and  un- 


CHAP.  II  [  14  ] 

assisted.  Irving  returned  with  a  different  com- 
pany, and  I  did  not  see  him  again. 

Always  before  I  had  gone  to  Clarice's  room 
after  the  evening's  gaiety  and  helped  her  with 
her  toilet,  while  she  recounted  her  various  ex- 
periences, small  triumphs,  quarrels  and  senti- 
mental interchanges,  and  we  laughed  over  them 
in  girlish  fashion  together.  To-night  I  bade  her 
good-night  at  my  door,  pleading  fatigue.  It 
was  my  heart  that  was  tired,  and  less  with  any- 
thing which  had  happened  than  with  a  heavy 
and  painful  premonition.  And  yet,  why  did  I 
care?  Irving  was  simply  my  good  comrade, 
nothing  more. 

I  had  put  on  a  thin  dressing-gown  and 
was  combing  my  hair  before  my  very  plainly 
equipped  bureau,  when  I  heard  a  step  on  the 
porch  at  the  front  of  the  house,  just  below  my 
window  and  immediately  there  was  a  rustle  by 
my  door  of  flowing  drapery.  I  knew  on  the  in- 
stant it  was  Clarice  in  the  sumptuous  silk  negli- 
gee in  which  she  luxuriated  on  occasion.  My 
door  was  opened  softly  then  and  Clarice  whis- 


[  15  ]  CHAP.  II 

pered,  "  Sidney,  darling,  I  left  my  cape  in  the 
other  carriage  and  some  of  them  said  they  would 
bring  it  over.  I  will  run  down  for  a  moment. 
Go  right  to  bed.  I  will  be  sure  the  door  is  locked 
all  right." 

I  suppose  I  knew  instinctively  what  Irving 
would  do,  for  I  paid  no  attention  to  what  hap- 
pened at  the  front  door,  but  instantly  I  hastened 
to  the  open  window  in  the  hall  overlooking  the 
box-bordered  garden  at  the  rear  of  the  house 
where  the  ranks  of  tall  white  lilies  showed  spec- 
tral now  in  the  gloom.  I  crouched  on  the  floor 
in  the  window  niche,  behind  the  curtains  and 
in  a  moment  I  heard  the  steps  I  expected,  com- 
ing very  quietly  around  the  house,  and  saw 
Clarice,  the  trail  of  her  long  robe  caught  up 
over  one  arm,  as  she  passed  down  the  walk  with 
Irving  beside  her.  For  half  an  hour  I  knelt 
there  while  they  passed  slowly  backward  and 
forward,  her  figure  graceful,  flowing,  seductive 
in  every  line;  his  instinct  with  masculine  vigor 
— tense  with  attention.  At  last  they  stopped  on 
the  veranda  steps,  out  of  my  sight  but  not  out 
of  my  hearing. 


CHAP.  II  [  16  ] 

"  Why  must  I  go  I  You  let  other  men  stay 
far  later,"  I  heard  Irving' s  voice;  then  heard 
my  name  murmured  by  Clarice. 

Then  he  spoke  again,  very  slowly,  his  voice 
low  but  strangely  distinct. 

"  You  know  perfectly  well  that  there  is  noth- 
ing, could  be  nothing,  between  Sidney  and  me 
but  friendship.  She  is  a  very  good  friend. 
She  was  made  for  friendship,  but  you  were 
made  for " 

"  Hush,"  she  interrupted.  I  had  before  this 
learned  Clarice's  Southern  art  of  leading  a  man 
to  the  verge  and  then  stopping  him ;  I  was  learn- 
ing now  her  prime  social  axiom,  to  sacrifice 
every  woman  to  any  man.  "  I  can  not  let  you 
speak  like  this,  but  I  am  glad  to  know  that  you 
— care — a  little.  I  never  dreamed  of  it,  you  see. 
I  supposed  you  wholly  devoted  to  Sidney  or 
this  could  not — "  and  here  her  voice  seemed  to 
falter  and  I  heard  them  pass  around  the  house. 

In  another  moment  the  front  door  opened 
and  before  it  closed  I  was  back  in  my  own  room 
with  my  door  locked. 


[  17  ]  CHAP.  II 

That  night  I  did  not  sleep  at  all.  It  was 
the  night  when  in  some  sense  at  least  the  child 
in  me  died  and  the  woman  was  born  in  pangs  of 
anguish  and  torment.  And  yet  no  element  of 
tragedy  was  present  save  of  a  commonplace 
sort.  Irving  was  in  no  way  pledged  to  me  nor 
was  Clarice  pledged  not  to  allure  him.  Not  one 
word  they  had  said  was  distinctly  treacherous. 
The  very  innermost  sting  lay  in  the  fact  that 
it  was  all  distinctly  true — truest  of  all  that  I 
was  made  for  friendship  while  Clarice  was  made 
for  love.  Yes,  what  awoke  in  me  that  night 
was  not  the  prime  passion  of  a  great  love,  the 
supreme  energy  of  a  woman,  but  the  instinct  of 
wounded  pride,  the  passion  for  the  power  to 
awaken  admiration,  the  desire  not  so  much  to 
love  as  to  be  loved.  But  this  passion,  noble  or 
ignoble,  sprang  "  full-statured  in  an  hour,"  and 
with  a  power  which  carried  all  before  it.  Hatred 
and  anger  awoke  in  me  where  love  and  trust 
had  been — hatred  for  Clarice  and  a  furious  an- 
ger for  Irving.  I  did  not  know  whether  both 
or  either  had  meant  to  trick  and  to  betray 

2 


CHAP.  II  [  18  ] 

me.  I  knew  it  was  done.  I  looked  back  upon 
my  devotion  to  Clarice,  my  self-effacement  for 
her  sake,  with  a  sick  loathing,  suddenly  seeing 
the  selfishness  which  had  been  content  to  re- 
ceive and  absorb  all.  The  thought  of  the  time 
that  remained  of  her  visit  stretched  before  me 
as  an  impossible  penance  before  which  my  very 
soul  fainted.  Daylight  filled  my  room  and  I 
started  mechanically  upon  the  day's  duties  full 
of  inner  chaos,  confusion  and  blinding  pain. 


HI 


I  SPENT  the  week  which  followed  in  a  kind 
of  frozen  fury.  Clarice  felt  the  change  in  tem- 
perature instantly  and  responded  by  flinging  off 
all  further  disguise  and  permitting  Irving  to 
burn  incense  at  her  shrine  freely  and  with  no 
attempt  at  concealment. 

"  Irving  has  now  gone  over  to  the  majority," 
I  said  with  bitterness  to  my  mother  after  two 
days  had  passed. 

"  He  went  over  long  ago — the  very  first  day," 
she  replied,  "  but  you  did  not  see  it,  dear.  Be 
careful  not  to  show  your  feelings  too  plainly. 
What  has  happened  is  only  what  was  inevitable." 

In  spite  of  this  admonition,  I  could  not  for 
the  time  conceal  entirely  the  spasms  of  jealous 
pain  under  which  my  soul  was  writhing.  Had 
not  Clarice  enough  in  the  homage  and  flattery 
of  all  the  rest?  Could  she  not  have  spared  me 


CHAP.  Ill  [  2O  ] 

my  one  good  friend  and  comrade?  Was  there 
no  such  thing  as  faith  or  fealty?  Did  a  pretty 
face,  a  gay  voice,  a  dainty  foot,  a  laughing  eye 
suffice  to  break  down  the  friendship  of  years? 
For  our  friendship,  Irving's  and  mine,  was 
broken  to  pieces  hopelessly.  I  had  flashed  out 
on  the  Sunday  evening  a  few  scornful  words 
which  had  met  with  a  chilling  rebuke  from  him. 
From  that  hour  every  word  and  glance  of  his 
seemed  to  reveal  to  me  how  unlovely  and  unat- 
tractive I  made  myself  in  his  sight  by  my  dis- 
play of  injured  feeling.  This  was  powerless, 
however,  to  subdue  or  allay  my  agitation  which 
I  have  no  doubt  was  visible  to  every  one  in  our 
little  circle  through  all  that  wretched  week. 
Then,  of  a  sudden,  my  pride  came  to  my  res- 
cue, touched  to  life  by  a  pitying  word  and  glance 
from  one  of  the  girls.  I  had  borne  much,  how- 
ever ill,  but  to  be  an  object  of  general  pity  was 
more  than  could  be  borne.  I  remember  going 
to  my  room  and  locking  myself  in  and  having  it 
out  with  myself.  I  saw  plainly  what  a  cheap, 
pitiable,  spiritless  role  I  had  been  playing,  and 


[  31  ]  CHAP.  Ill 

decided  that  from  that  moment  no  one  should 
detect  in  me  a  trace  of  my  burning  wound.  I 
had  worn  my  heart  upon  my  sleeve  long  enough 
for  daws  to  peck  at.  I  remember  that  I  rose 
and  stretched  out  both  hands,  clasped  tight  to- 
gether. I  stood  at  my  dressing-table  confront- 
ing myself  in  the  glass,  but  seeing  nothing,  and 
said  audibly,  so  that  my  own  nerves  vibrated 
with  the  sound  in  the  silent  room,  "  I  will  grasp 
the  situation  with  both  hands  and  I  will  control 
it.  They  shall  learn  that  I  am  above  them  both." 
With  the  last  words  the  tension  relaxed  and 
I  perceived  my  own  reflection.  My  eyes  were 
shining  with  a  light  they  had  never  had  before, 
my  cheeks  were  flushed,  my  mouth  had  a  new 
expression,  proud,  severe  and  yet  passionate, 
which  I  saw  with  surprise  gave  me  something 
akin  to  beauty  for  the  moment.  My  unconscious 
pose  was  full  of  fire  and  energy.  My  hands 
dropped  and  I  stood  long  studying  myself  in 
the  glass,  thinking  hard.  I  saw  that,  for  all  my 
acknowledged  plainness,  I  had  dramatic  possi- 
bilities of  which  until  now  I  had  never  dreamed. 


CHAP.  Ill  [  22  ] 

My  skin  had  the  transparent  quality  which  is 
capable  of  sudden  illumination,  my  figure  had 
a  certain  expressive  power,  my  hands,  the  sin- 
gular, subtle  sensitiveness  of  form  and  touch 
that  my  mother's  had.  All  these  things  I  reck- 
oned rapidly,  with  the  artist  eye  which  was  mine 
as  the  birthright  of  my  father's  daughter,  but 
which  I  had  never  before  turned  upon  myself. 
I  saw  that  although  not  conventionally  hand- 
some, and  farther  yet  from  prettiness,  I  was  by 
no  means  insignificant  and  for  a  moment  I  even 
dared  to  dream  that  it  was  in  me  to  attain  a 
higher  attractive  power  than  that  exercised  by 
Clarice.  What  I  had  theretofore  lacked  more 
than  beauty  or  any  other  thing,  was  self-con- 
sciousness, say,  rather,  sex-consciousness.  Al- 
lurement is  preceded  between  men  and  women 
by  the  desire  to  allure.  This  desire  had  hereto- 
fore slept  in  me.  Now  it  was  awake. 

My  first  instinct,  however,  was  rather  fine. 
It  was  not  to  seek  satisfaction  or  amends  by 
stimulating  such  possible  personal  resources  as 
were  mine.  I  scorned  the  idea  of  resorting  to 


[  23  ]  CHAP.  Ill 

such  means  indeed,  and  sought  the  higher  moral 
satisfaction  of  putting  myself  in  the  right  where 
hitherto  I  had  been  in  the  wrong.  I  would  seek 
the  strong  position  rather  than  grovel  longer  in 
the  weak  one.  In  my  heart  I  believed  myself 
a  greater  person  than  either  Clarice  or  Irving, 
and  the  sum  of  my  long  deliberation  was  a  repe- 
tition of  the  utterance  with  which  I  began :  "  I 
will  show  myself  superior  to  them  both." 

I  came  down  from  my  height  and  from  my 
seclusion  to  find  Clarice  entering  the  library 
where  Irving  Lloyd  sat  in  neighborly  familiar- 
ity reading  a  magazine.  She  wore  a  fresh  white 
gown,  produced  from  her  armory  for  the  first 
time,  and  she  was  as  dainty  and  pretty  in  it  as 
a  rose.  Instead  of  following  the  line  (adopted 
since  that  crucial  night)  of  chilling  indifference, 
I  met  Clarice  with  an  affectionate  caress  and 
the  exclamation,  "  How  utterly  charming !  How 
is  it  Clare,  you  manage  always  to  look  prettiest 
in  the  last  new  thing  you  put  on?  Such  a  dar- 
ling dress!  Isn't  it,  Irving?" 

My  friend  had  risen  and  stood  gazing  a  lit- 


CHAP.  Ill  [  24  ] 

tie  wide  of  my  eyes,  in  obvious  embarrassment. 
He  murmured  an  inarticulate  response  while 
Clarice  blushed  and  her  expression  betrayed  in 
her  first  surprise  quite  as  much  annoyance  as 
pleasure.  I  discerned  at  once,  with  my  quick- 
ened instinct,  that  she  had  been  on  the  whole 
rather  enjoying  my  unlovely  display  of  jealous 
and  wounded  feeling.  I  knew  as  well  at  that 
moment  as  if  I  had  actually  heard  her,  how  she 
would  have  deplored  to  Irving  that  poor  Sidney 
had  such  a  dreadful  disposition,  so  impossible 
to  get  along  with  no  matter  how  hard  she  tried 
to  please  her — Could  he  understand  what  could 
be  the  matter?  etc.  Stimulated  by  this  percep- 
tion I  continued  in  the  same  cordial,  free-hearted 
tone,  "Irving,  why  don't  you  take  Clarice  up 
on  the  hill  this  afternoon  for  that  view?  The 
air  is  so  very  clear  as  I  noticed  just  now,  and 
you  have  plenty  of  time.  We  can  have  tea  a 
half-hour  later  as  well  as  not." 

They  looked  at  each  other  in  a  way  which  I 
interpreted  to  mean  that  something  of  the  kind 
had  been  their  intention,  but  had  been  thrown 


[  25  ]  CHAP.  Ill 

into  uncertainty  by  my  inopportune  appear- 
ance. 

"  It  would  be  a  good  time  for  that  walk, 
wouldn't  it? "  responded  Irving  slowly,  with  a 
very  poor  attempt  at  spontaneity.  "  But  you 
must  go  with  us,  you  know,  Sidney." 

I  bit  back  a  little  smile  of  bitterness  with 
the  thought  that  he  was  at  least  as  sincere  as  I. 

"  How  I  wish  I  could,  Irving ! "  I  exclaimed, 
"  but  I  absolutely  must  go  down  to  a  committee 
meeting  at  the  Library  at  four.  You  and  Cla- 
rice will  have  to  try  and  endure  each  other  un- 
assisted. Of  course  it  will  be  dreadfully  hard 
for  you  both!  Poor  things!  But  go  now — let 
me  see  you  start ! "  and  I  laughed  gaily  with  a 
little  playful  gesture  of  driving  them  forth. 

They  started  immediately,  but  their  blank 
and  puzzled  faces  as  they  turned  down  the  street 
struck  me  as  indicating  a  situation  so  inexpres- 
sibly ridiculous  that  I  fled  into  the  dining-room 
laughing  excitedly. 

My  mother  sat  there  alone.  She  had  estab- 
lished her  work-table  there  of  late  since  Clarice 


CHAP.  Ill  [  26  ] 

and  her  retinue  laid  the  rest  of  the  house  under 
requisition. 

"  My  dear ! "  she  murmured,  a  little  frown  of 
disapproval  on  her  face. 

"  Have  you  been  here  all  the  time1?  "  I  asked. 

"  Yes." 

"  Then  do  give  me  your  opinion.  How  did 
I  do  my  new  part?  " 

"  I  thought  you  overdid  it,"  she  said  quietly. 

"  Oh  dear !  "  I  cried  ruefully.  "  I  thought  as 
a  hypocrite  I  was  making  a  huge  hit.  But  no 
matter,  I  shall  get  it  down  fine  after  a  while. 
Now  if  they  only  come  back  engaged !  I  having 
clearly  sent  them  forth  for  the  not-to-be-dodged- 
nor-avoided  purpose — then " 

"  Then  what  will  you  do?  " 

"  Say  '  Bless  you,  my  children ! '  of  course, 
and  live  happy  forever  after !  " 

My  mother  looked  at  me  with  a  long  ponder- 
ing look. 


IV 


THE  following  week  Clarice  departed.  Just 
before  she  left  the  house,  when  no  unpleasant 
consequences  could  reach  her,  she  confided  to  me 
that  she  and  Irving  were  engaged.  "  And  it  is 
all  your  doing,  Sidney,  you  wonderful,  noble, 
unselfish,  old  darling."  Then  with  apparent  sin- 
cerity she  began  to  cry.  "  You  have  simply  been 
our  good  angel,"  she  sobbed ;  "  and  some  way  I 
have — such — a  guilty  feeling." 

I  assuaged  this  contrition  with  gratifying 
success,  for  the  sun  came  out  again  as  the  car- 
riage drove  off  and  Irving  appeared  as  escort 
to  the  train. 

Clarice  did  not  return  to  college.  Being  en- 
gaged was  an  occupation  in  itself.  However  I 
heard  repeatedly  of  the  very  gay  life  she  was 
leading  in  Baltimore  that  winter,  and  just  after 
my  return  to  college  after  the  holidays,  a  short 


CHAP.  IV  [  38  ] 

note  from  Irving  told  me  that  his  engagement 
was  broken  and  he  was  about  starting  for  Ger- 
many, there  to  finish  his  preparation  for  his 
profession.  He  was  to  be  an  architect.  His 
only  comment  on  the  situation  was,  "  The  thing 
was  wrong  in  the  beginning  and  has  been  wrong 
all  the  way  through." 

That  year,  the  second  of  my  college  life,  I 
developed  rapidly  in  some  respects.  Always 
given  to  athletic  exercise  I  gained  some  little 
prominence  for  my  proficiency  in  running 
games,  in  skating  and  swimming,  and,  after  a 
period  of  determined  effort,  I  achieved  distinc- 
tion as  a  dancer.  These  various  exercises  added 
to  the  power  and  to  the  expressiveness,  flexibil- 
ity and  grace  of  my  body.  I  had  ceased  grow- 
ing tall ;  my  bony  structure,  I  thanked  Heaven, 
seemed  at  last  completed,  and  the  mysterious 
glands  and  things  which  carry  on  that  part  of 
the  process  took  their  turn  and  rounded  out  my 
proportions  hitherto  so  angular. 

The  girls  suddenly  discovered  that  I  ought 
to  wear  decollete  dress,  that  "  I  had  a  neck."  I 


[  29  ]  CHAP.  IV 

had  always  thought  so  myself  and  was  highly 
gratified  that  my  points  were  at  last  discovered 
by  others. 

In  my  Junior  year  I  was  invited  to  spend 
the  Christmas  holidays  at  the  house  of  a  class- 
mate whose  father  had  a  magnificent  "  place  " 
twenty  miles  from  New  York.  My  mother  had 
awakened  with  a  species  of  incredulous  delight 
to  a  perception  that  her  Ugly  Duckling  was  not 
quite  hopeless.  She  now  spent  much  time  and 
thought  on  a  series  of  costumes  for  this  event. 
The  example  of  the  excellent  effect  of  these 
weapons  in  Clarice's  case  had  not  been  lost  upon 
either  of  us.  And  still  I  was  a  long  way  from 
being  a  Clarice.  I  was  still  undeniably  in  the 
ranks  of  the  homely  girls ;  but  it  is  a  wise  man 
who  told  the  world  some  time  ago  that  the 
homely  woman  is  the  formidable  woman  after 
all. 

The  first  night  that  I  appeared  at  dinner  at 
the  house  of  my  friend  in  decollete  dress  (a 
small  dance  was  to  follow),  I  felt  a  curiously 
mingled  sense  of  diffidence  and  power.  I  be- 


CHAP.  IV  [  3O  ] 

lieved  myself  at  the  moment  to  be,  actually  and 
visibly,  ineffective,  but  potentially  a  person  to 
be  reckoned  with.  I  believe  the  expression 
which  my  eyes  sought  with  only  partial  success 
to  conceal  as  I  met  the  world  that  night,  was 
challenge.  I  stood,  as  it  were,  with  lance  in  rest, 
armed,  tense,  ready  for  action.  However,  to  all 
appearance  I  was  just  a  tall,  demi-blonde  girl 
in  a  white  gown  with  a  figure  which  would  be 
better  when  it  was  more  filled  out,  a  fair  skin 
with  a  few  freckles,  a  long  nose,  a  rather  pleas- 
ant mouth  with  perfect  teeth,  and  a  really  good 
chin  and  neck.  Nothing  remarkable  any  way, 
you  see,  and  yet  to  myself  every  inch  of  my  per- 
son under  my  white  gown  and  my  white  skin 
was  so  remarkable,  so  vitally  individual,  so  full 
of  a  tingling  sense  of  young,  pulsating  life !  I 
loved  my  hands  because  they  were  so  fine  of 
touch  and  tint,  and  my  long,  firm,  untired  limbs, 
which  could  dance  all  night  and  hardly  know  it ; 
in  fine,  I  loved  the  body  of  me  with  a  hearty, 
animal  relish  and  yet  I  was  not  strongly  sensu- 
ous. The  exposure  of  my  person  that  night  for 


[  31  ]  CHAP.  IV 

the  first  time  in  my  life  gave  me  a  distinctly 
painful  shock.  I  suppose  no  woman  ever  thus 
reveals  herself  to  the  eyes  of  strangers  without 
first  trampling  upon  the  primitive  instincts  of 
modesty  and  reserve  which  must  be  slain  before 
one  enters  the  great  world. 

This  was  in  effect  my  first  passage  at  arms 
with  men  since  I  had  put  on  my  armor.  How 
would  I  come  off  1 

I  have  no  social  triumphs  to  chronicle.  No 
man  surrendered  to  my  charms  in  any  alarming 
manner  that  night  or  throughout  my  visit;  but 
I  was  satisfied.  I  found  that,  in  spite  of  the 
fact  that  I  was  no  beauty,  I  could  draw  out  as 
much  attention  and  admiration  from  men  as  I 
knew  what  to  do  with.  I  think  in  fact  a  slight 
contempt  arose  within  me  as  I  first  found  what 
an  easy  prey  they  were.  Birth  and  breeding, 
together  with  my  dancing,  my  gaiety,  my  high 
spirits,  and  the  refinement  of  person  and  speech 
which  were  my  heritage,  seemed  sufficient.  I 
found  how  very  different,  moreover,  playing 
guest  was  from  playing  host.  It  was  the  part 


CHAP.  IV  [  32  ] 

of  the  men  I  met  to  find  me  charming,  and  of 
my  friend  to  make  my  path  easy.  I  looked  back 
at  the  reverse  of  the  present  situation,  at  the 
summer  when  Clarice  (now  married)  was  my 
guest,  and  realized  how  very  transient  and  mean- 
ingless a  large  part  of  the  devotion  to  her  had 
been.  I  received  as  much  now  myself,  and  I 
saw  through  it  as  I  had  failed  to  do  then. 

However,  dating  from  the  time  of  that  visit, 
I  can  see  that  self-  and  sex-consciousness  be- 
came fully  awakened  in  me,  and  the  craving  for 
the  admiration  of  men  grew  by  what  it  fed  on. 
I  began  to  perceive  that  the  one  unpardonable 
fault  in  a  woman,  to  the  adolescent  masculine 
mind,  is  indifference  to  masculine  attention. 
The  girl  who  cares  impartially  and  invariably 
for  the  devotion  of  men,  who  brightens  under  it 
and  pales  without  it,  who  seeks  it  and  schemes 
for  it  and  runs  to  meet  it,  is  the  girl  who  re- 
ceives it  in  any  great  extent  or  marked  degree. 
A  natural  concomitant  this,  I  suppose,  of  pair- 
ing time. 

I  now  looked  back  upon  the  girl  who  lounged 


[   33  ]  CHAP.  IV 

in  a  hammock  that  June  day,  careless  of  her 
dress  and  attitude,  yawning  palpably  in  the 
face  of  a  perfectly  desirable  and  eligible  cava- 
lier, as  no  more  my  real  self  than  the  Sphinx 
was  myself.  I  understood  one  as  little  as  the 
other.  Still  less  did  I  understand  my  present 
self,  however,  and  the  line  on  which  I  was  de- 
veloping. The  truth  was  this — I  was  not  pretty 
enough  to  draw  to  myself  the  men  I  met  with- 
out an  effort;  therefore  I  made  the  effort  and 
with  constantly  increasing  address  and  skill. 
But  I  was  no  uncouth,  country  hoyden  running 
after  the  male  of  her  species.  On  the  whole,  as 
I  look  back,  I  see  that  at  twenty-two  I  was  al- 
ready a  subtle  and  skilful  coquette  of  a  particu- 
larly refined  sort. 


IRVING  LLOYD  was  now  established  as  an 
architect  in  Boston.  He  seldom  came  back  to 
his  old  home,  and  when  he  came  it  was  for  very 
brief  visits.  At  these  times  he  occasionally  paid 
us  a  formal  call,  but  more  than  that  we  never 
saw  him.  He  was  on  the  road  to  success,  we 
heard,  in  his  profession,  and  was  counted  a 
social  success  already,  even  in  Boston.  He  had 
acquired  a  polished  and  distingue  manner,  a 
rather  melancholy,  impenetrable  reserve,  and 
marked  elegance  of  person.  He  had  always 
been  a  handsome  fellow  I  saw  when  I  came  to 
think  of  it,  and  he  was  handsomer  at  twenty- 
six  than  at  twenty.  This  was  noticeable  in  him : 
he  always  did  the  correct  thing  and  never  over- 
did it.  He  was,  as  I  naturally  knew  very  well, 
disappointed  in  love.  I  knew  further  from  his 
mother,  who  was  our  very  good  neighbor,  that 


[  35  ]  CHAP.  V 

he  would  never  marry,  that  side  of  life  being 
cut  off  to  him  by  his  unhappy  affair  with  Cla- 
rice. This  fact  gave  perfectly  good  ground  for 
the  slight  tinge  of  melancholy  in  his  expression 
and  for  his  reserve,  but  these  peculiarities  were 
only  indicated,  if  I  might  so  say — never  empha- 
sized. In  his  relation  to  me  there  dwelt  a  pos- 
sible awkwardness,  a  sense  of  disadvantage  and 
embarrassment  in  view  of  our  early  intimacy 
and  the  break  which  had  come  about  later.  And 
then  I  was  still,  nominally,  the  friend  of  Clarice. 
He  managed  this,  however,  admirably.  He  bore 
himself  toward  me  whenever  we  met  with  a 
peculiar  gravity  and  deference,  a  very  marked 
seriousness  of  courtesy,  but  with  a  certain  un- 
derlying distance  which  it  seemed  from  his 
point  of  view,  we  must  both  find  impassable. 
To  touch  upon  his  broken  engagement  in  words 
was  wholly  out  of  the  question.  In  fact  we 
never  in  his  rare  visits,  alluded  to  any  event  of 
that  summer,  occupying  ourselves  in  our  casual 
conversations  with  the  more  remote  past  or  the 
more  inviting  future. 


CHAP.  V  [  36  ] 

The  spring  before  my  college  graduation 
Irving  had  a  long  run  of  fever.  His  mother 
told  me  that  as  soon  as  he  was  sufficiently  con- 
valescent she  should  remove  him  from  the  Bos- 
ton hospital  and  bring  him  home  to  remain  the 
entire  summer.  Before  I  went  back  to  college 
that  year  I  interested  my  mother  in  having 
some  improvements  made  in  our  tangled  old 
garden.  She  promised  me  to  carry  out  my  wish 
to  place  beds  of  mignonette  and  nasturtiums 
beside  the  brick  walk,  and  especially  to  have 
a  row  of  sweet  peas  planted  just  inside  the 
boundary  hedge  at  the  foot  of  the  garden.  It 
was  our  practise  to  spend  July  and  August  in 
the  mountains,  but  we  should  gain  some  good 
of  these  friendly  flowers  both  early  and  late. 

When  I  returned  home  in  June  with  my 
diploma  and  my  modest  portion  of  class  honors 
and  decorations,  I  was  overjoyed  to  find  that 
my  mother  had  far  outrun  my  simple  ideas. 
The  forlorn  old  wilderness  had  been  wholly 
transformed.  It  was  now  a  charming  version 
of  the  old-fashioned  flower-garden,  the  thick, 


[  37  ]  CHAP.  V 

somber  lines  of  box  dividing  broad,  brilliant 
beds  of  poppies,  larkspur  and  marigolds,  while 
hollyhocks,  sweet  peas  and  sunflowers  stood  tall 
and  gay  against  the  ragged  untrimmed  hedge. 

My  mother  had  spent  the  preceding  two 
weeks  at  college,  sharing  in  all  the  festivities 
and  delighting  in  all  the  honors  and  attentions 
which  came  my  way.  She  brought  me  word 
that  Irving  Lloyd  was  still  in  Boston,  but  con- 
valescent now.  His  mother  had  gone  to  him. 

The  evening  of  our  return,  the  late  dinner 
over,  I  went  out  on  the  west  veranda  and  stood 
leaning  over  the  rail,  looking  down  into  the 
garden.  From  the  boundary  hedge  the  smooth 
lawn  of  the  Lloyd  premises  sloped  gradually  up 
to  the  terrace  below  their  dining-room  windows. 
Benches  always  stood  on  this  terrace  under  some 
slender  birch-trees.  As  my  eyes  left  the  bounds 
of  my  own  garden,  a  dusky,  fragrant  maze  now 
in  the  twilight,  they  discerned  a  masculine  fig- 
ure under  the  distant  birch-trees,  and  a  fra- 
grance all  unlike  that  of  mignonette  and  sweet 
peas  was  wafted  faintly  over  to  me.  A  pleasant 


CHAP.  V  [  38  ] 

sensation  ran  along  the  course  of  my  veins. 
Plainly,  Irving  Lloyd  was  at  home  again.  It 
might  not  be  best  to  go  to  the  mountains  this 
year  before  August. 

For  forty-eight  hours  I  remained  invisible. 
Our  veranda  was  as  deserted  as  before  our  re- 
turn, and  only  an  occasional  light  in  a  window 
gave  token  of  our  presence  to  any  eye  which 
might  have  been  watching  or  expectant.  Those 
two  days  I  spent  deliciously  in  my  own  white 
bed,  in  the  wide,  cool  north  bed-room  which  my 
mother  had  refurnished  for  my  return  with 
charming  taste.  I  had  learned  by  this  time  a 
lot  of  fine  lady  ways.  I  was  still  athletic,  and 
never  I  think  effeminate  or  precisely  voluptu- 
ous, but  I  went  in  for  all  things  fragrant,  dainty 
and  alluring  about  my  personal  belongings.  I 
detested  strong  perfumes,  directly  and  obviously 
applied,  but  I  considered  scented  baths  a  neces- 
sity. My  wardrobe  was  never  extravagant  or 
over-fashionable,  but  I  cared  much  for  the  lux- 
ury of  underclothing  of  silk,  or  of  cotton  of 
cobweb  fineness  of  texture  and  perfection  of 


[  39  ]  CHAP.  V 

handiwork;  I  delighted  in  sumptuous  and  deli- 
cate negligee.  On  my  dressing-table  I  never 
could  endure  the  heavy  tinny  wares  of  the 
silversmith.  All  my  brushes  and  boxes  were 
of  smoothest  ivory,  carved  only  with  my 
monogram. 

I  mention  these  habits  of  fastidious  luxury 
because  they  have  an  important  relation  to  the 
personality  of  a  woman.  The  influence  of  un- 
seen private,  personal  elegance,  beauty  and  lux- 
ury is  as  positive  in  her  body  and  bearing  as  it 
is  indefinable.  I  had  come  a  long  way  from 
the  boyish  meagerness  and  hardihood  of  my 
early  years.  My  mother  encouraged  the  change, 
and  gratified  my  wishes,  which  were  not  in  ex- 
cess of  her  resources,  but  I  think  there  were 
times  when  I  puzzled  her.  She  was  a  fine  lady, 
too,  but  with  a  difference. 

The  third  day  after  my  return  home,  it  was 
evening  rather  (we  had  just  finished  dinner), 
I  strolled  down  to  the  foot  of  the  garden 
with  a  watering-pot,  a  shallow  basket  and  a  pair 
of  flower-scissors.  The  evening  was  very  warm. 


CHAP.  V  [  4O  ] 

I  wore  a  thin  white  dress  which  left  neck  and 
arms  exposed.  My  throat  was  as  firm  and  fine 
as  ivory,  and  my  hair  behind  my  ears  and  at 
the  nape  had,  I  knew,  a  delightful  ripple.  My 
arms  were  white  and  round  and  strong.  I  felt 
like  a  young  Amazon,  sallying  forth  to  combat. 
I  had  been  worn,  nervous,  uncertain  of  myself 
at  first  on  my  return,  being  extremely  tired. 
My  eyes  had  looked  burned  out  with  excitement, 
my  cheeks  hollow.  Now  I  was  rested,  and  as 
fresh,  as  vigorous  and  elastic  as  a  sapling.  I 
liked  myself  particularly  well  that  evening.  I 
knew  I  was  in  good  looks,  and  that  the  radiance 
of  perfect  health  was  almost  beauty. 

I  passed  along  the  rows  of  sweet  peas  just 
within  the  sparse  screen  of  the  hedge,  now  wa- 
tering them,  now  snipping  off  a  spray  or  two 
of  the  more  striking  blossoms  for  my  basket.  I 
hummed  a  little  tune  as  I  went,  but  very  low, 
because  I  knew  I  might  get  off  the  key,  having 
no  ear  for  music.  The  effect  of  the  little  tune 
was  designed  for  no  one  but  myself ;  it  gave  me 
a  certain  air  of  careless,  light-hearted  preoccu- 


[  41  ]  CHAP.  V 

pation.  That  was  the  air  I  wanted.  Presently 
I  found  that  the  aromatic  odor  for  which  I  was 
on  the  alert  was  perceptible.  I  strolled  on  to 
the  opening  in  the  hedge,  the  one  through  which 
Irving  Lloyd  used  to  go  back  and  forth  in  our 
school-days.  It  was  almost  grown  together  now, 
but  not  completely.  There  I  paused,  swinging 
my  basket  and  looking  ingenuously  up  the 
grassy  slope  to  the  birch-trees  on  the  terrace. 
As  it  was  still  early  twilight  I  could  plainly  see 
my  neighbor  seated  on  the  bench,  a  languor  in 
his  attitude  noticeable  even  from  the  distance. 

I  hastened  with  frank  and  sincere  concern 
up  the  lawn,  dropping  my  basket  when  I  reached 
him.  Words  of  neighborly  greeting  were  on  my 
lips  and  I  held  out  both  hands.  Irving  rose 
and  gave  me  his,  looking  with  much  kindliness 
into  my  eyes.  I  had  not  for  a  moment  pictured 
to  myself  the  ravages  of  a  fever  such  as  he  had 
suffered.  The  sunken  eyes,  haggard  cheeks, 
pale  lips,  the  chill,  nerveless  hands  which  mine 
held  produced  upon  me  a  sharp  and  sudden  im- 
pression. All  my  old  habit  of  genuine  friend- 


CHAP.  V  [  42  ] 

ship  asserted  itself  with  force  and  sincerity.  I 
burst  into  tears  and  exclaimed,  "  Oh,  Irving ! 
I  did  not  realize  how  ill  you  have  been.  I  am 
so  sorry — so  glad — "  and  I  broke  off  because  I 
could  say  not  another  word. 

"  Sit  down  here  with  me,  Sidney,"  he  said 
in  his  quiet  way.  "  The  sight  of  you  as  you 
look  to-night  is  enough  to  make  a  sick  man 
well."  As  I  obeyed  I  caught  a  gleam  in  his 
eyes  as  of  tears,  and  a  sudden  flush  of  color 
also  betrayed  the  keen  emotion  which  this  sim- 
ple revelation  of  heartfelt  concern  produced  in 
him,  after  the  many  years  of  coldness  and  en- 
forced distance.  Neither  of  us  needed  to  put 
on  airs  any  more.  It  was  enough  to  be  our- 
selves, a  practise  almost  forgotten  in  our  inter- 
course together.  The  coldness  and  strangeness 
of  years  were  annihilated. 

When  I  left,  in  a  few  moments,  for  I  feared 
to  tire  him,  Irving  came  slowly  with  me  down 
the  lawn.  At  the  foot  of  it  he  detained  me  to 
say,  smiling  half  sadly, 

"You  have  broken  the  path  again  to-night, 


[  43  ]  CHAP.  V 

Sidney,  through  the  old  hedge.  It  is  a  symbol. 
Do  you  know  that  for  years  I  have  gone  around 
the  street-corner  and  up  the  front  steps  and 
rung  your  bell  like  a  stranger?  " 

"  And  that  was  a  symbol,  too.  You  won't 
do  it  any  more,  will  you?  "  I  said,  and  lifted  my 
eyes,  which  were  still  wet  with  tears,  frankly 
and  yet  timidly  to  his  face.  It  wore  a  look  I 
recalled  having  seen  in  it  once  before,  on  the 
pebbly  beach  at  Mallard  Lake.  It  was  a  look 
which  quickened  the  beating  of  my  heart.  Cer- 
tainly he  was  very  distinguished  looking,  most 
interesting,  and  his  dark,  close-clipped  beard 
made  him  seem  almost  a  stranger,  after  all. 

My  eyes  fell  beneath  his  glance.  I  could  see 
my  breast  rise  and  fall  tumultuously  with  my 
rapid  breath. 

"It  shall  be  as  you  say,  dearest  Sidney," 
Irving  said  very  gently,  and  then  he  bent  and 
kissed  my  hand. 

When  I  walked  back  alone  up  the  uneven 
brick  walk  between  the  box  borders,  I  knew  that 
I  should  be  asked  to  marry  Irving  Lloyd.  I 


CHAP.  V  [  44  ] 

felt  a  deep  tenderness  in  my  heart  and  a  touch" 
of  solemnity,  but  below  and  above  all  a  profound 
satisfaction.  The  old  and  hidden  wound  would 
be  healed  at  last. 

What  was  it  that  had  been  wounded! 


VI 


WE  did  not  go  to  the  mountains  at  all  that 
summer.  There  was  a  spell  upon  us  too  beau- 
tiful to  break. 

One  July  morning  stands  out  now  with  per- 
fect clearness  in  my  mind  from  all  the  rest.  It 
was  a  backward  eddy  on  the  rippling  stream  of 
my  content. 

I  had  had  my  roll  and  chocolate  in  bed,  as 
was  my  custom  when  at  home.  Then  had  fol- 
lowed the  elaborate  rites  of  washing  my  hair 
and  of  my  bath  in  a  tub  as  polished  and  flawless 
as  a  French  china  cup — the  water,  violet-scented, 
clear  as  crystal,  first  warm  and  relaxing,  then  a 
keen,  cold  shower  to  finish,  turning  my  flesh 
pink  and  my  muscles  hard  again.  This  accom- 
plished, I  had  dressed  carefully,  but  instead  of 
putting  on  a  dress  had  slipped  into  an  apple- 


CHAP.  VI  [  46  ] 

green  silk  lounging  robe,  as  the  process  of  dry- 
ing my  hair  was  now  to  follow. 

When  I  came  down-stairs  and  stopped  for  a 
little  talk  with  my  mother  in  the  library,  she  told 
me  I  looked  like  a  July  lily  just  bursting  from 
its  calyx.  I  liked  the  notion.  I  had  brought 
from  my  room  my  white  ivory  comb  and  hand- 
glass; I  passed  out  now  to  the  west  veranda, 
taking  with  me  also  an  enormous  Pompeian 
pink  pillow  from  the  library  sofa. 

The  morning  was  warm  but  not  oppressive, 
and  the  sunshine  on  my  cold,  wet  hair  gave  me 
an  agreeable  sensation.  I  soon  made  myself 
very  comfortable  in  the  wide  hammock,  my 
head  propped  high  on  the  pink  pillow,  the  loose 
sleeves  of  my  negligee  falling  back  above  the 
elbow,  my  feet,  in  gold-embroidered  Turkish 
slippers,  just  showing  below  the  billowy  folds 
of  my  green  drapery.  My  hair  I  shook  out 
over  the  edge  of  the  hammock  and  it  fell  to  the 
floor  in  dank  strands  but  soon  began  to  change 
and  grow  bright  and  living  and  lustrous  in  the 
sun. 


[  47  ]  CHAP.  VI 

Then  Irving  came  and  found  me  wholly 
charming  (as  I  knew  he  would),  and  kissed  me 
on  arms  and  throat  as  well  as  on  lips  and  fore- 
head, and  sat  down  in  the  low  armchair  drawn 
near  for  him  by  my  side.  He  had  been  my  de- 
clared lover  for  almost  a  month.  The  old  wound 
was  healed.  The  affair  with  Clarice,  I  was 
assured,  had  never  been  more  than  a  super- 
ficial infatuation,  as  fleeting  on  his  part  as  on 
hers. 

I  noticed  with  anxiety  that  Irving  was  look- 
ing badly  that  morning,  something  of  bluish 
pallor  about  his  skin  augmenting  the  general 
weakness  of  aspect  which  he  had  not  yet  shaken 
off  since  his  fever.  It  was  a  slow  convalescence. 
We  knew  that  he  could  hardly  be  perfectly  re- 
covered within  a  year,  but  of  late  his  mother 
had  been  alarmed  at  a  suggestion  of  cardiac 
weakness,  a  complication  most  to  be  dreaded. 

"  Oh !  how  I  wish  I  could  give  you  some  of 
my  superfluous  vitality,"  I  said,  holding  his 
cold  hand  in  my  warm  vigorous  grasp. 

He  smiled  and  pressed  my  hand  to  his  lips, 


CHAP.  VI  [  48  ] 

but  I  saw  the  smile  was  forced,  and  was  pain- 
fully struck  by  the  weakness  of  his  motions. 

"  Irving,  won't  you  let  that  doctor  from  Bos- 
ton come?"  I  said  imploringly.  "He  under- 
stands your  case  so  perfectly,  and  then  he  is 
your  friend  besides.  Your  mother  thinks  him 
the  most  scientific  and  skilful  physician  she 
knows.  Do  let  her  send  for  him !  It  worries  me 
so  that  you  do  not  get  strong  faster." 

"  How  nice  to  think  I  can  make  a  goddess 
worry,"  he  said  playfully.  "  But  you  can  rest 
now.  Mother  has  had  her  way  and  sent  for  Dr. 
Kirke  already.  She  wired  him  last  night."  I 
gave  a  joyous  exclamation  the  rather  to  conceal 
my  instinctive  dismay  that  such  a  measure  had 
really  been  thought  necessary. 

"  When  will  he  come  T  " 

"  I  have  no  idea.  He  is  the  busiest  man  I 
know.  It  is  unpardonable  to  make  him  come  at 
all,  and  I'll  wager  he  will  be  furious  when  he 
gets  here  and  finds  there  is  absolutely  no  cause 
for  sending  for  him.  Please,  Sidney,"  very 
meekly,  "may  I  comb  your  hair?" 


[49]  CHAP.  VI 

For  answer  I  placed  the  comb  in  his  hand 
and  as  he  leaned  forward  and  began  to  draw  it 
slowly  and  solemnly  through  the  long  locks 
which  were  beginning  to  grow  buoyant  and 
fluffy,  I  said, 

"  How  horrid  of  him  to  be  furious !  I  should 
hate  him  if  he  was.  Is  he  bad-tempered  then?  " 

"  Rather  a  grampus,  I  have  to  allow ;  but  a 
royal  old  rock  of  a  fellow  after  all.  You 
wouldn't  like  him,  though." 

"Why  not!" 

"  Well,  for  one  thing,  he  is  a  Methodist." 

"  Oh  dear  me,  Irving !  That  is  enough, 
isn't  it?" 

"I  thought  it  would  strike  you  so.  But  I 
don't  think  women  do  usually  like  him." 

"  Not  even  Methodist  women?  " 

"  No.  You  see  he  has  no  conversation,  no 
manners,  except  of  a  professional  sort,  no  time 
for  the  society  of  women,  and,  what  is  worse, 
no  taste." 

"What  does  he  go  in  for? " 

"  Hard  work  and  golf,  and  no  petticoats  on 

4 


CHAP.  VI  [  5O  ] 

the  golf-links  either,  if  he  can  help  it.  Sidney, 
you  have  the  loveliest  hair!  Look,  how  long 
it  is!" 

"  Isn't  it  a  pretty  color  there  where  the  sun 
strikes  it?"  I  returned  impartially.  "But  do 
give  me  the  comb,  Irving,  you  go  at  it  in  such 
a  reverent  spirit  that  it  makes  me  wild.  I  want 
to  give  a  good  tug  at  these  snarls  down  here," 
and  I  took  the  comb  again  from  his  hand. 

He  sat  back  regarding  me  with  love-lit  ardor 
of  admiration  as  I  leaned  on  one  elbow  and 
drew  the  comb  steadily  through  the  spun-silk 
mass,  so  lifting  it  to  fall  screen-like  against  the 
sun  which  streamed,  dull  gold,  through  its  glint- 
ing, tangled  meshes. 

"  What  is  it  you  are  like !  "  he  exclaimed,  his 
eyes  dark  and  bright  with  a  sort  of  rapture,  for 
the  artist  in  him  was  strong. 

Suddenly,  almost  at  the  foot  of  the  steps,  an 
unfamiliar  muffled  voice  pronounced  as  in  ex- 
clamation a  single  word,  a  word  which  neither 
of  us  distinguished.  We  both  started  to  see 
that,  unknown  to  us,  a  man  had  come  down  the 


[  51  ]  CHAP.  VI 

garden  walk  and  had  apparently  heard  what 
Irving  said. 

Even  as  I  sprang  from  my  reclining  posi- 
tion, and  sat  erect  against  the  cushions,  twist- 
ing my  hair  with  a  single  swift  motion  behind 
my  head,  Irving  had  run  down  the  steps  and 
grasped  the  stranger  by  the  hand,  his  cheeks 
flushed  slightly  with  surprise  and  evidently  also 
with  pleasure. 

"It  is  Dr.  Kirke,  Sidney,"  he  explained, 
looking  back  at  me,  with  comical  confusion. 
"  What  shall  I  do  1  May  I  bring  him  up  ?  How 
on  earth  did  you  manage  to  get  here  so  soon, 
Doctor?" 

"  By  the  Albany  midnight  express.  Not  a 
complicated  process,  I  assure  you,"  and  without 
waiting  to  see  whether  I  invited  him  to  do  so 
or  not,  Dr.  Kirke  came  up  the  veranda  steps 
and  gave  me  an  abrupt  and  yet  ceremonious 
hand-shake,  Irving  introducing  us  a  little  awk- 
wardly. 

It  was  perfectly  natural  that  I  should  ex- 
perience some  small  confusion  on  being  intro- 


CHAP.  VI  [  52  ] 

duced  to  a  distinguished  Boston  physician,  the 
friend  of  my  fiance  in  the  bargain,  in  such 
dishabille.  However,  I  knew  the  dishabille  was 
becoming,  as  was  also  the  blush  which  I  felt 
springing  to  my  cheeks,  and  as  I  drew  myself 
to  a  seat  on  the  hammock's  edge,  my  green 
drapery  flowing  about  me  and  settling  into  a 
shimmering  pool  on  the  veranda  floor,  my  hair 
falling  below  my  waist  in  a  shining  rope,  my 
throat  and  arms  modestly  concealed,  I  should 
not  have  found  the  situation  particularly  un- 
pleasing,  had  the  man  who  had  so  abruptly 
intruded  upon  us  done  his  part  acceptably.  I 
should  not  have  demanded  allusions  to  nymphs 
of  either  sea  or  wood.  It  would  have  been  sat- 
isfactory if  he  had  looked  a  reverent,  unspoken 
admiration,  a  chivalrous,  apologetic  deference 
to  my  maiden  alarm  and  confusion,  but  he  did 
nothing  of  the  kind.  He  looked  at  me  indeed 
longer  than  I  thought  nice  or  necessary,  but  it 
was  with  a  singularly  cold,  measuring  glance, 
as  if  he  were  making  a  businesslike  estimate  of 
my  character  and  person  from  an  absolutely 


[  53  ]  CHAP.  VI 

impersonal  point  of  view.  It  was  an  unmerciful 
look  to  the  woman's  vanity  of  me.  It  seemed 
to  say :  "  I  see  through  all  your  little  shams  and 
wiles.  Keep  them  for  your  lover  and  any  one 
else  who  likes  them.  They  are  lost  upon  me. 
You  are  simply  a  rather  homely  woman  work- 
ing a  fine  skin,  a  white  arm  and  a  lot  of  rather 
good  hair  for  all  they  are  worth  and  perhaps  a 
little  more." 

Decidedly  Dr.  Kirke  was  neither  artist,  ideal- 
ist, courtier  nor — gentleman  I  was  ready  just 
then  to  say,  being  more  disconcerted  by  that 
look  of  his  and  its  stark  indifference  than  I  re- 
member ever  being  before  in  my  life.  Meta- 
phorically I  nailed  a  small  flag  of  distress  to 
my  mast,  wrapped  myself  in  reserve  as  in  a  veil 
and  so  speedily  rid  myself  of  both  men.  As 
they  passed  down  the  walk  of  my  garden  to- 
gether I  pleased  myself  with  registering  a  good, 
round  opinion  of  Dr.  Kirke's  undeniably  heavily 
built  figure  and  homely  face,  but  I  found  myself 
again  and  again  seeking  to  determine  what  had 
been  that  one  word  he  had  growled  rather  than 


CHAP.  VI  [  54  ] 

spoken,  at  the  foot  of  the  steps,  before  we  were 
aware  of  his  proximity.  Had  it  been  a  sort  of 
response  to  Irving's  impassioned  exclamation, 
"  What  is  it  you  are  like  ?  "  or  had  it  been  some 
foreign  phrase  of  apology  or  greeting?  For- 
eign it  had  certainly  sounded  to  my  ear,  and  yet 
not  unfamiliar.  My  mother  had  compared  me  to 
a  lily  within  the  hour.  Dr.  Kirke's  exclamation 
seemed  to  bear  a  faint,  uncertain  semblance  of 
that  word  and  yet  I  knew  it  was  not  the  same. 
Whatever  it  was  I  was  convinced  that  it  was 
of  a  savage  nature  and  that  he  had  had  no  busi- 
ness to  speak  at  all.  My  dislike  of  the  man 
was  fixed  from  that  hour. 


VII 

WE  were  married  in  January.  Irving  was 
then  fully  restored  to  health;  his  profession 
produced  sufficient  income  for  us  to  live  on  with 
economy;  we  were  both  old  enough  to  marry; 
we  knew  each  other  from  the  associations  of  a 
lifetime.  There  was  nothing  to  wait  for. 

Nevertheless,  in  my  secret  heart  I  should 
have  preferred  to  extend  the  period  of  betrothal 
indefinitely.  I  had  a  talent  for  the  woman's  side 
in  courtship.  I  had  a  strong,  honest  dread  and 
dislike  of  entering  the  mysteries  of  the  married 
state.  As  the  time  drew  near,  I  lived  in  a  per- 
petual chill  of  physical  revolt.  I  knew  maiden- 
hood, its  sweet  severity,  its  innocent  luxury,  its 
radiant  solitude.  Such  joys  as  marriage  had  to 
bestow  were  joys  for  which  I  had  no  craving. 
Irving  never  offended  my  most  fastidious  taste, 
but  I  preferred  his  far-off  worship  to  the  un- 


CHAP.  VII  [  56  ] 

thinkable  intimacy  which  he  so  ardently  desired. 
I  used  to  recall  with  perplexity  expressions  I 
had  read  in  Clarice's  letters  just  before  her 
wedding  of  her  impatience  for  the  day  to  come. 
For  me,  I  looked  forward  to  it  as  a  prisoner  to 
the  day  of  execution.  I  was  afraid  I  did  not 
love  Irving  as  I  should,  since  other  girls  ap- 
proached marriage  with  such  different  feelings. 
But  I  certainly  found  his  devotion  and  worship 
indispensable,  and  I  knew  I  could  not  trifle  with 
a  passion  like  his.  Hence  I  made  no  outward 
protest  and  only  strove  to  hide  my  dismay  as 
the  day  hurried  on  by  throwing  myself  gaily 
into  the  myriad  details  of  preparation.  It  was 
a  brilliant  wedding,  but  my  husband  found  a 
bride,  affectionate,  but  stone-cold.  Still  we  won 
our  way  fairly  well  through  the  ordeal  of  the 
honeymoon,  Irving's  delicacy  of  feeling,  his 
rapture  of  admiration  and  homage  reconciling 
me  to  my  new  condition.  I  believe  my  unspoken 
motto  for  the  new  life  was :  To  be  loved  is  ter- 
rible, but  not  to  be  loved  would  be  much  more 
terrible.  This  I  am  sure  was  not  formulated  or 


[  57  ]  CHAP.  VII 

defined,  but  was  my  very  simple  and  sufficient 
philosophy. 

We  began  our  new  home  life  in  a  small  but 
charming  house,  an  old  house  remodeled,  in  a 
fashionable  location  of  C ,  a  half-hour's  dis- 
tance on  the  cars  from  Irving's  office.  My 
mother  had  been  at  work  for  many  weeks  there 
in  preparation  for  our  coming.  She  had  de- 
spoiled her  own  house  of  its  finest  furniture, 
and  even  of  its  best  pictures  for  our  benefit. 
The  old  home  was  to  be  closed  for  an  indefinite 
period,  for  my  mother  would  go  to  England  now 
to  be  with  her  sister,  who  was  the  wife  of  a 
prominent  country  gentleman  and  M.  P.  She 
desired  the  change  greatly  for  her  own  sake,  and 
she  also  held  it  particularly  desirable  for  mine. 

"  A  girl  never  stands  upon  her  own  powers 
and  uses  her  real  resources  in  her  married  life, 
if  her  mother  and  her  mother's  home  are  con- 
stantly at  her  disposal.  I  have  given  Sidney 
twenty-three  years  of  unceasing  care,  sympathy, 
instruction,  training.  Now  let  her  put  the  re- 
sults to  the  touch  and  show  herself  a  woman. 


CHAP.  VII  [  58  ] 

It  is  not  fair  for  a  mother  at  forty-five  to  live 
only  in  her  child's  life.  She  has  still  a  life  of 
her  own  to  live.  If  I  remain  within  easy  reach 
and  call  I  shall  be  an  adjunct,  an  accessory  of 
Sidney's  establishment.  That  would  be  good 
for  neither  of  us.  We  are  two  strongly  indi- 
vidual women  in  the  prime  of  our  love  of  life 
and  our  capacity  for  enjoyment.  It  is  best  that 
for  a  time  we  shall  strike  out  our  own  separate 
paths.  By  and  by  life  will  call  us  together 
again  by  its  sorrows  or  its  joys — its  ebb  or  its 
flood  of  experience." 

Something  like  this  was  my  mother's  mani- 
festo when  she  left  me,  but  life  never  called  us 
together  again.  I  never  saw  her  after  she  left 
for  England.  She  died  after  a  short  illness,  in 
the  Riviera,  whither  she  had  gone  with  my  aunt, 
two  years  after  my  marriage. 

She  was  a  beautiful  woman.  I  have  recorded 
that  before;  a  woman  of  exquisite  refinement 
and  of  much  poise  and  dignity.  I  think  she  was 
very  slightly  endowed  with  spiritual  perception 
or  genius.  Both  had  been  strong,  I  have  learned 


[  59  ]  CHAP.  VII 

from  others,  in  my  father,  but  strangely  tangled 
up  with  the  esthetic  and  sensuous  faculties  which 
made  him,  while  still  young,  a  brilliant  and  suc- 
cessful artist. 

I  think  what  I  have  written  sounds  cold  and 
thankless.  I  loved  my  mother  more  selflessly 
than  I  have  ever  loved  any  person,  and  I  also 
admired  her  with  enthusiasm.  We  were  neither 
of  us,  I  think,  women  of  great  emotional  ten- 
derness. 

In  a  few  months  after  our  marriage  Irving 
and  I  had  already  achieved  a  rather  enviable 
social  popularity.  I  think  we  were  regarded  as 
an  altogether  companionable  pair  of  people  by 
a  somewhat  exclusive  and  fashionable  set  of 
people  in  C ,  mostly  young  lawyers  and  busi- 
ness men,  with  a  university  instructor  or  two 
and  one  already  distinguished  artist. 

As  the  months  passed  our  unpretending 
house,  with  its  one  servant  and  half  a  dozen 
rooms,  became  in  some  sort  a  social  center  for 
the  people  we  knew.  Our  table  was  always  be- 
yond question  in  the  immaculate  character  of 


CHAP.  VII  [  6O  ] 

linen,  silver  and  china,  the  freshness  of  its  flow- 
ers, the  nicety  of  the  cooking.  If  we  had  been 
rich  we  should  have  had  things  in  no  better 
taste,  no  more  essentially  elegant.  For  this  rea- 
son Irving  always  felt  the  way  open  to  invite 
his  friends  to  his  home  without  warning,  and  a 
large  amount  of  free,  informal  visiting  resulted. 
There  was  much  of  bright  and  really  good  talk 
in  our  circle,  clever,  bold  and  daring  sometimes. 
In  this  my  husband  participated  but  slightly. 
He  was  a  silent  man  and  while  appreciative  was 
neither  witty  nor  original  in  thought  himself. 
I  became  aware  of  this  as  I  saw  him  with  other 
men  of  the  world.  But  the  men  who  frequented 
the  house  all  thought  him  a  thoroughly  fine  fel- 
low ;  praised  his  cigars,  liked  to  sit  by  his  fires, 
eat  his  dinners  and  talk  with  his  wife.  Plenty 
of  women  came  too,  but  I  made  no  intimate  or 
confidential  friends  and  the  habitues  of  our 
house,  as  it  happened,  were  men. 

There  was  one  friend  of  my  husband's  who 
never  appeared  at  his  table  or  fireside,  in  part 
because  he  had  no  time,  but  chiefly  because  he 


[  61  ]  CHAP.  VII 

was  never  invited.  I  had  exacted  a  promise 
from  Irving  before  our  marriage  that  he  would 
never  invite  Dr.  Kirke  to  the  house  except  in 
case  of  urgent  professional  need.  I  told  him 
that  I  considered  him  unpardonably  rude,  and 
therefore  not  entitled  to  an  entree  to  our  home 
on  a  social  basis.  Irving  demurred  seriously, 
but  finally  consented,  doubtless  perceiving  that 
the  doctor  would  have  no  more  inclination  to 
come  than  I  had  to  receive  him. 

Without  doubt  our  house,  though  small,  was 
peculiarly  artistic  and  effective.  The  rooms 
were  low-ceiled,  with  heavy  beams  and  wain- 
scots in  time-darkened  oak,  and  in  the  hall  a 
quaint  staircase  with  a  very  fine  stained  win- 
dow; there  were  odd  bits  of  coloring,  curious 
but  quiet  draperies,  and  some  very  good  Ori- 
ental faience.  The  house  had  expression,  people 
said,  individuality,  charm. 

I  kept  my  house  with  a  passion  for  perfec- 
tion, and  as  a  reward  received  a  perpetual  cloud 
of  incense  rising  before  me  from  the  groans  and 
self-pityings  of  my  married  friends  whose  brass 


CHAP.  VII  [  62  ] 

and  silver  and  plate-glass  never  shone  like  mine 
(they  said) ;  whose  flowers  were  never  so  effec- 
tive ;  whose  floors  never  took  the  dark  gleam  of 
polish;  whose  rugs  never  possessed  the  same 
deep,  dim  richness,  even  though  they  cost  much 
more. 

My  house  was  my  stage,  and  I  could  not 
afford  to  have  one  of  its  properties  neglected 
or  ineffective.  Each  season  brought  its  own 
fresh  material.  How  well  I  remember  that  first 
spring  when  the  earliest  hyacinths  appeared  in 
the  greenhouses.  Their  delicious  perfume,  with 
its  undertouch  of  bitterness,  always  exerted  a 
peculiar  influence  upon  my  sense.  I  had  placed 
a  great  glass  sphere  of  them,  creamy  white  and 
pink,  on  a  tabouret  against  the  dark  wainscot  at 
the  foot  of  the  stairs;  they  were  reflected  in  an 
old  oval  gilt-framed  mirror  with  brass  sconces, 
in  which  wax  candles  were  burning.  Having 
heard  Irving's  key  in  the  door  I  hastened  down 
to  meet  him.  I  wore  a  lusterless  white  gown 
with  bright  green  ribbons  at  the  waist,  trailing 
down  the  skirt.  My  arms  were  bare  to  the 


[  63  ]  CHAP.  VII 

shoulder,  but  my  gown  high  at  the  throat  with 
a  touch  of  green  to  accent  the  whiteness,  and 
my  hair  piled  high  and  bright  on  the  very 
crown  of  my  head. 

What  did  it  matter  then,  a  voice  in  me  cried 
in  inward  exultation,  that  I  was  not  beautiful? 
I  knew  that  I  produced  the  effect  of  beauty. 
The  dominion  and  the  power  of  it  were  mine. 

My  husband,  coming  in  just  as  I  reached  the 
lowest  stair,  spoke  out  in  very  ecstasy  of  artis- 
tic delight,  crossed  the  hall  to  drop  on  his  knee 
in  joyous  gallantry,  kissed  the  hem  of  my  gown 
and  called  me  the  Genius  of  Spring. 

A  simple,  little  homespun  triumph,  it  may 
sound,  but  I  knew  it  was  less  simple  than  it 
seemed.  The  homage  in  Irving's  eyes  was  too 
often  reflected  in  the  eyes  of  other  men  for  me 
to  doubt  it. 


VIII 

THOSE  hyacinths  were  still  in  their  place,  so 
that  it  must  have  been  the  day  following,  that 
a  great  March  storm  of  snow  and  wind  shut  me 
in  all  day  to  their  company.  Growing  very 
tired  of  it  by  four  o'clock,  I  determined  to  face 
the  blast,  have  a  quick  walk  down  to  the  little 
suburban  station  and  meet  Irving,  who  was  in 
the  habit  of  coming  by  the  four-thirty  train.  I 
started  out  cheerily  in  fur  jacket  and  cap,  but 
before  I  reached  the  station  the  wind  fairly 
lifted  me  from  my  feet  and  threw  me  with  stun- 
ning force  into  a  snow-drift.  I  sprang  up  and 
turned  about,  forthwith  giving  up  the  attempt 
to  reach  the  station.  It  was  clear  that  no  train 
would  come  through  on  time  in  such  a  storm. 
I  struggled  back  to  my  own  door  breathless  and 
panting.  The  house  was  dark  already  and 
darker  to  my  snow-blinded  eyes  than  it  was  in 


[  65  ]  CHAP.  VIII 

reality.  As  I  stamped  the  snow  from  my  shoes 
and  shook  off  my  whitened  jacket  I  caught 
sight  of  a  narrow  visiting-card  lying  on  the 
bronze  tray  near  the  door — a  gentleman's  card. 
I  bent  to  glance  at  it  hastily  but  failed  to  dis- 
tinguish the  name,  and  in  the  same  instant  be- 
came aware  that  a  tall  man  who  seemed  to  have 
been  seated  in  Irving' s  great  chair  by  the  library 
fireplace  was  rising  and  holding  himself  ready 
to  meet  me.  The  folding-doors  opened  wide 
into  the  library.  I  tossed  my  fur  gloves  off  on 
the  settle,  shook  the  melting  snowflakes  from 
my  hair  and  walked  promptly  forward  into  the 
library  with  my  new-married  air  of  graceful 
dignity  and  not-easily-to-be-ruffled  composure. 

The  gentleman  who  bowed  and  then  extended 
his  hand  with  formal  courtesy  (not  introducing 
himself  by  name  as  my  glance  at  his  card  seemed 
to  have  rendered  such  introduction  superflu- 
ous) I  saw  at  once  was  singularly  handsome. 
He  apologized  with  winning  deference  for  the 
liberty  he  had  taken  in  appropriating  a  place  at 
my  fireside,  unbidden.  He  had  come  to  C 


CHAP.  VIII  [  66  ] 

in  order  to  consult  Mr.  Lloyd  on  the  matter  of 
a  small  building  enterprise  he  had  in  mind  and 
being  told  by  the  maid  that  Mr.  Lloyd  was  ex- 
pected at  any  moment  he  had  ventured  to  wait. 
As  he  spoke  I  watched  his  face  with  interest, 
for  I  felt  at  once  that  this  might  be  a  rather  re- 
markable man.  His  manner  was  so  extremely, 
even  languidly,  unassuming  as  to  give  color  to 
the  possibility  that  he  was  somebody  in  par- 
ticular. He  was  noticeably  blonde,  with  a  pale, 
toneless  skin,  curly  hair  clipped  very  close  to 
his  head,  a  high  forehead,  narrow  gray  eyes 
with  a  keenly  quizzical  expression  lurking  some- 
where in  their  corners,  a  small,  neat  nose,  a  firm- 
lipped  ironical  mouth,  the  chin  round  and  well 
formed.  He  wore  a  fur-lined  overcoat  coming 
nearly  to  his  heels,  but  I  could  see  that  he  was 
a  slender  man  with  something  still  of  youthful 
grace  in  line  and  limb.  Only  about  thirty-five 
I  fancied  him  to  be.  Although  he  looked  no  older 
than  my  husband  he  wore  himself  with  a  com- 
plete confidence,  which  was  yet  not  assurance 
and  which  suggested  greater  maturity. 


[  67  ]  CHAP.  VIII 

In  another  moment  we  were  both  seated  by 
the  fireplace.  I  had  removed  my  fur  cap  and 
my  unknown  visitor  was  seriously  engaged  in 
building  up  the  dying  fire  with  sticks  from  the 
leather-covered  wood-box  which  I  had  at  once 
opened.  I  remarked  politely  on  his  skill  in  this 
performance,  looking  down  when  his  head  was 
turned  away  at  my  wet-edged  skirt  and  soaked 
ankles. 

He  turned  as  the  flames  suddenly  leaped  out 
and  then  shot  roaring  up  the  chimney,  and  said, 
,"  You  are  chilled  and  your  dress  is  damp,  I  am 
afraid.  Pray  do  not  let  me  detain  you  here. 
I  am  simply  a  customer,  you  see,  a  client-to-be, 
perhaps,  of  your  husband.  That  is  all.  I  have, 
unfortunately,  no  claim  upon  your  presence  or 
attention.  And  your  bric-a-brac  will  be  per- 
fectly safe ! " 

We  both  smiled  at  the  last  words,  but  my 
smile,  at  least,  was  without  mirth.  He  had  in- 
fused into  what  he  had  said  a  curious  sugges- 
tion of  latent  but  habitual  authority  mingled 
with  a  restrained  flattery.  I  could  not  decide 


CHAP.  VIII  [  68  ] 

whether  he  was  sarcastic  or  sincere.  I  glanced 
across  at  him,  a  glance  of  cold  question.  I 
sought  some  sign  by  which  to  determine  whether 
to  act  promptly  upon  his  lead  or  not.  He  met 
the  look  with  an  expression  of  sincere  and  cour- 
teous solicitude.  I  touched  the  electric-bell  in 
the  chimney-frame  beside  me  and  bade  my  maid, 
who  appeared  instantly,  bring  in  tea  and  light 
the  lamps. 

"It  is  customary,  I  believe,"  I  said  coldly, 
as  the  maid  left  the  room,  "  for  women  to  offer 
refreshment  to  their  husbands'  clients." 

"It  is  good  business,  Mrs.  Lloyd,"  he  said 
and  smiled  slightly — an  indifference  to  the  little 
manifest  attention  which  I  found  irritating.  It 
annoyed  me  that  he  knew  and  used  my  name 
while  I  remained  in  ignorance  of  his.  Who  was 
he,  anyway?  Was  it  worth  while  wasting  time 
and  tea  on  him?  I  would  have  given  the  hat 
I  had  just  taken  off,  and  it  had  been  an  expen- 
sive one,  to  have  one  more  look  at  that  card  still 
lying  on  the  tray,  for  to  ask  his  name  now 
seemed  impossibly  awkward.  Just  then  he  rose, 


[  69  ]  CHAP.  VIII 

begging  permission  to  lay  aside  his  overcoat. 
The  clock  was  striking  five. 

"  I  can  wait  half  an  hour  for  your  husband 
to  appear,  if  my  presence  is  not  too  much  of 
an  intrusion." 

"  By  all  means  wait.  I  hope  you  will  make 
yourself  as  comfortable  as  you  can,"  I  said  with 
remote  civility.  The  office  of  ministering  to  my 
husband's  clients  was  new  and  not  altogether 
pleasing  to  me.  I  took  advantage  of  this  chance 
to  rise  myself,  murmuring  that  the  maid  had 
forgotten  to  light  the  hall. 

As  I  stood  by  the  bowl  of  hyacinths  at  the 
foot  of  the  stairs,  having  lighted  the  candles  in 
the  mirror  sconces,  I  looked  keenly  over  at  the 
card  on  the  bronze  tray.  Yes,  the  light  I 
thought  would  suffice  for  my  purpose.  As  I  re- 
passed  the  spot  to  take  my  place  at  the  tea-table 
which  Kitty  was  at  the  moment  drawing  up 
before  the  library  fire,  I  could  make  one  more 
attempt  to  catch  the  name  of  my  perplexing 
visitor.  At  the  first  step  I  glanced,  however,  at 
the  man  himself.  He  had  removed  his  great- 


CHAP.  VIII  [  7O  ] 

coat  and  was  standing  just  within  the  open  door- 
way by  the  piano,  leaning  slightly  upon  it,  his 
arms  folded  across  his  breast,  watching  me 
steadily.  His  gaze  was  perfectly  courteous  and 
even  expressed  respectful,  well-bred  admira- 
tion, but  that  touch  of  irony  about  his  mouth 
was  more  perceptible  than  hitherto,  as  if  he  had 
divined  my  intention  and  was  amused  by  it. 
A  curious  tingling  sensation  ran  through  my 
nerves.  I  blushed  like  a  schoolgirl  as  I  hastened 
forward,  my  eyes  fixed  upon  the  tea-table.  But 
my  slight  discomfiture  vanished  as  soon  as  de- 
clared, lost  in  a  dominant  impression  of  this 
man's  extraordinary  grace  of  person  and  dis- 
tinction of  bearing  now  first  fully  revealed 
to  me. 

"  Whoever  you  may  be,"  I  said  to  myself,  as 
I  took  the  chair  he  held  for  me  at  the  tea-table, 
"  you  are  plainly  a  client  worth  winning.  I  will 
play  the  game  as  well  as  I  can  with  so  many 
odds  against  me." 

But  the  man  whom  I  had  uneasily  felt  to  be 
in  some  sort  my  opponent  now  became  my  cor- 


[  71  ]  CHAP.  VIII 

dial,  even  enthusiastic,  ally,  and  made  me  feel 
for  the  moment  that  the  odds  were  in  my  favor. 
The  disadvantage  of  my  plain  walking-suit, 
heavy,  wettish  boots,  reddened  skin  and  wind- 
blown hair,  of  which  I  had  until  now  been  dis- 
agreeably conscious,  were  forgotten  in  short 
order.  As  I  made  the  tea  the  very  touch  of  the 
shining  silver  implements,  of  the  beautiful  cups, 
thin  as  bubbles,  seemed  to  be  my  scepter  given 
again  into  my  hand.  I  was  queen  again  of  my 
own  home  and  my  court  I  found  strangely  to 
my  mind,  for  Irving's  possible  client  was  now 
at  pains  to  lay  before  me  the  impressions 
which  our  home  had  made  upon  him  in  the  mo- 
ments during  which  he  had  sat  alone  in  the 
library. 

"  You  and  your  husband  have  achieved  here, 
Mrs.  Lloyd,"  he  said  with  fascinating  impres- 
siveness,  "  a  harmony  which  I  have  hardly  ever 
seen  in  such  degree  before.  Seriously,  I  would 
advise  Mr.  Lloyd  to  give  all  his  clients  the  entree 
of  his  house.  Nothing  could  be  more  convinc- 
ing. I  felt  as  I  sat  here  as  if  I  was  in  the  temple 


CHAP.  VIII  [  72  ] 

of  an  ideal  home,  to  which  every  field  of  art, 
poetry,  culture,  nature,  thought — life  in  fine,  had 
brought  their  contribution,  producing  a  perfect 
whole." 

"  How  very  fine !  "  I  cried  delightedly,  think- 
ing it  might  easily  be  that  he  had  never  seen 
such  a  home  as  ours. 

"  I  have  observed,"  he  went  on  slowly,  lean- 
ing back  and  enjoying  the  tea  and  thin  bread 
and  butter  which  I  was  myself  finding  delicious 
after  my  encounter  with  the  storm,  "  I  have  ob- 
served that  in  religion  your  tastes — the  tastes 
of  Mr.  Lloyd  and  yourself — are  singularly 
broad.  You  are  fond  of  saints  and  angels " 

"In  art,"  I  murmured. 

"In  art,"  he  repeated,  and  smiled  assent. 
"  Catholic  saints  and  Protestant  champions  im- 
partially, pagan  gods  and  goddesses,  Buddha, 
Jesus,  Socrates — all  are  represented.  I  have 
even  dared  to  wonder  which  represented  you." 

"We  are  eclectic  in  religion,"  I  said  gaily. 
"  I  am  assured  that  life  is  simply  a  succession 
of  choices.  Why  not  religion  as  well?" 


[  73  ]  CHAP.  VIII 

He  nodded,  looking  at  me  with  grave  sar- 
casm. 

"  That  is  very  good.  Religion  is,  we  might 
say,  carrying  the  notion  of  choice  a  little  far- 
ther, elective  as  well  as  eclectic." 

"  Precisely,"  I  said  laughing.  "  I  have  not 
decided  myself  to  elect  it." 

"  You  are  a  member,  however,  of  Saint 
Christopher's  Church  in  Boston,  I  believe." 

How  did  he  know  this  I  wondered,  growing 
more  and  more  perplexed,  but  hiding  my  per- 
plexity skilfully. 

"  Oh,  to  be  sure,"  I  replied ;  "  but  church 
membership  and  religion,  they  are  two  different 
things.  By  the  way,  have  you  heard  the  rector 
of  Saint  Christopher's,  Mr.  Owen,  preach?" 

"Yes,  often.  A  very  good  man,  and  a  very 
good  friend  of  mine." 

"  Is  he  not  very,  very  clever  along  esthetic 
lines  ? "  I  asked,  trying  harder  than  ever  to 
thread  my  way  inwardly  to  the  man's  identity. 

"  I  regard  him  as  authority  in  all  matters  of 
taste,"  and  he  was  going  on  to  say  something 


CHAP.  VIII  [  74  ] 

further  but  Kitty  came  in  to  announce  that  the 
closed  sleigh  he  ordered  was  waiting  to  take 
the  gentleman  to  the  station,  and,  if  he  pleased, 
the  driver  said  the  horses  would  not  stand,  the 
storm  being  so  very  bad  just  at  present. 

We  both  rose.  Without  haste  but  without 
delay  my  nameless  visitor  took  his  leave,  bowing 
over  my  hand  with  graceful  but  not  too  profuse 
thanks  for  my  hospitality  and  the  privilege  of 
my  presence  in  his  period  of  waiting.  He  re- 
gretted my  husband's  absence,  but  he  should  see 
him  surely  at  his  office  in  Boston,  etc.,  etc.  I  stood 
by  the  fire  while  he  put  on  his  overcoat  and  hat 
in  the  hall.  The  door  opened  and  closed;  I 
heard  the  sound  of  sleigh-bells  muffled  by  the 
snow  and  retreating.  He  was  certainly  gone, 
clean  gone  past  return,  and  yet  I  waited  a  full 
minute  by  the  clock  on  the  mantel  before  I 
stirred  from  the  spot.  I  had  an  uncanny  dread 
that  he  would  in  some  impossible  way  be  linger- 
ing still  about  the  door  and  would  again  turn 
upon  my  impatience  that  steady  ironical  regard. 

At  the  beat  of  the  sixtieth  second  I  crossed 


[  75  ]  CHAP.  VIII 

to  the  card-tray  in  the  hall  and  picked  up  the 
card.  The  name  was  Mr.  G.  Ross  Kimball. 

My  visitor,  my  husband's  possible  client, 
accordingly  was  the  great  financier  and  rail- 
road magnate.  Then  perhaps  our  fortunes 
were  made,  and  perhaps  they  were  lost.  I  trem- 
bled from  head  to  foot.  My  first  definite  thought 
was  to  wonder  if  my  heavy,  snow-soaked  shoes 
might  possibly  have  escaped  his  notice.  My 
first  action  was  to  step  to  the  foot  of  the  stairs 
and  regard  myself  in  the  oval  mirror.  My  sec- 
ond to  seat  myself  in  the  chair  which  my  visitor 
had  occupied  by  my  fireside,  and  seek  to  deter- 
mine how  my  modest  house  really  presented 
itself  to  the  eyes  of  the  great  millionaire. 

On  the  whole  its  cherished  effects  seemed 
to  me  less  convincing  at  the  moment  than  I  had 
supposed.  Had  all  those  pleasing  phrases  he 
had  used  in  its  praise  been  satirical  like  his 
smile? 


IX 


IT  is  not  strange  that  I  was  startled  to  find 
that  G-.  Koss  Kimball  had  been  my  guest,  all 
unknown,  for  an  hour,  for  many  reasons.  He 
was  by  all  means  the  most  prominent  figure  in 
social  and  financial  circles  in  our  part  of  the 
world,  at  the  time,  and  furthermore  the  center 
of  various  cherished  schemes  and  dreams  of 
Irving's  and  my  own.  We  had,  to  tell  the  truth, 
joined  Saint  Christopher's  Church  in  Boston  be- 
cause it  had  a  wealthy  constituency  in  part,  and 
in  part  because  Eoss  Kimball  was  an  influential 
and  active  member.  It  was  commonly  said  that 
he  owned  both  the  church  and  its  rector,  Mr. 
Owen,  a  man  whose  fixed  distaste  for  experi- 
mental religion  was  counterbalanced  by  his 
very  remarkable  esthetic  taste  and  culture.  Mr. 
Owen,  aristocratic  by  birth  and  breeding,  in 
turn  was  known  to  act  as  guide  and  critic  to 


[  77  ]  CHAP.  IX 

the  great  millionaire — a  parvenu  himself — in 
all  matters  of  an  esthetic  character.  For  this 
reason  Irving  and  I  had  for  weeks  past  assidu- 
ously cultivated  Mr.  Owen,  as  our  rector,  sit- 
ting at  his  feet,  so  to  say,  in  youthful  humility. 
He  had  responded  warmly  to  our  attentions  and 
had  become  a  frequent  guest  at  our  house,  and 
to  me  a  very  tiresome  one.  However,  I  did  my 
cheerful  best  for  him,  the  reasoning  being  clear 
and  simple  that  Mr.  Ross  Kimball  would  be 
sure  some  time  to  build  something  and  that  the 
architect  whom  Mr.  Owen  might  mention  to  him 
would  stand  an  excellent  chance  of  being  chosen 
by  him.  If  the  architect  succeeded  in  carrying 
the  idea  of  the  millionaire  to  a  successful  finish, 
his  reputation  would  be  made,  his  fortune  as- 
sured. 

This  man,  then,  upon  whom  our  thoughts 
and  hopes  had  been  peculiarly  set,  had  spent  an 
hour,  almost,  in  free  and  familiar  conversation 
with  me  in  my  own  house,  had  even  discussed 
Mr.  Owen,  our  one  connecting  link,  and  yet  his 
identity  had  not  for  an  instant  suggested  itself 


CHAP.  IX  [  78  ] 

to  me.  At  first  thought  I  seemed  to  myself  un- 
consciously stupid,  but  it  really  was  not  strange. 
I  had,  needless  to  say,  never  seen  Ross  Kimball, 

who  was  not  a  resident  of  C ;  I  had  always 

heard  him  spoken  of  as  a  man  of  about  fifty, 
and  had  formed  a  fixed  image  of  him  as  a  stout, 
pompous,  red-faced  parvenu.  Moreover,  a  visit 
from  the  Pope  would  have  seemed  to  my  imag- 
ination as  probable  as  a  visit  from  this  notable 
individual.  I  have  never  quite  understood  what 
led  him  that  stormy  evening  to  seek  a  personal 
interview  with  us  in  our  house.  Certainly  noth- 
ing moved  him  again  in  the  same  direction. 

He  did,  however,  within  a  few  days  send  to 
ask  Irving  to  call  upon  him  in  his  office  in  Bos- 
ton and  there  laid  before  him  the  matter  in  hand. 
He  wished  him  to  make  preliminary  sketches 
for  a  model  rural  railroad  depot,  a  series  of 
which  he  contemplated  building  on  a  new  sec- 
tion of  line  he  was  about  to  open. 

Irving's  plan,  on  which  he  worked  persist- 
ently and  often  far  into  the  night,  was  submit- 
ted to  a  committee  appointed  for  the  purpose, 


[  79  ]  CHAP.  IX 

early  in  June.  A  month  later  it  was  returned 
rejected,  without  explanation. 

Irving's  disappointment  was  very  great  and 
even  depressing,  but  he  took  it  man's  fashion, 
as,  after  all,  in  the  day's  work,  part  of  the  for- 
tunes of  war,  a  thing  which  happened  to  every 
man  and  could  be  explained  and  softened  in  a 
dozen  different  ways,  forgotten  in  a  few  weeks. 
To  me  it  was  another  thing.  I  was  intensely 
mortified,  stung  to  the  core,  bitterly  humiliated, 
hotly  indignant.  My  indignation  was  profess- 
edly inspired  by  the  railroad  people,  especially 
Boss  Kimball,  whom  I  denounced  as  the  very 
embodiment  of  coldly  malicious  heartlessness, 
but  in  reality  it  was  directed  to  my  husband. 
Why  had  he  not  done  a  better  thing — a  brilliant 
thing?  How  could  he  have  been  so  incredibly 
weak,  dull,  incapable,  as  to  let  this  one  chance 
for  a  future  go  by?  What  was  the  matter  with 
his  plan?  In  what  had  he  so  conspicuously 
failed! 

For  the  first  time  I  interested  myself  prac- 
tically in  the  details  of  Irving's  business.  I 


CHAP.  IX  [  8O  ] 

asked  him  to  bring  the  rejected  plan  home  to 
me.  He  brought  it  one  July  night  and  handed 
it  to  me,  his  face  haggard  and  miserable.  His 
misery  secretly  moved  me  to  irritation  rather 
than  sympathy.  I  left  the  drawings  untouched 
until  he  had  taken  the  train  the  next  day.  Then 
I  carried  them  to  my  own  room  and  spread  them 
out  upon  the  bed. 

For  an  hour  or  more  I  could  not  make  my 
way  beyond  the  minutiae  of  details  with  which 
I  was  unfamiliar,  but  these  once  mastered,  the 
perception  of  the  reason  for  the  plan's  rejection 
smote  upon  me  with  sickening  distinctness. 

Mr.  Kimball  had  desired  a  new  design, 
unique,  original,  bold,  simple  yet  picturesque. 
Irving  had  planned  a  thing  carefully  elaborated, 
perfectly  respectable,  but  destitute  of  imagina- 
tion, almost  timid  and  commonplace  to  a  degree. 
The  thing  was  perfectly  suitable  but  perfectly 
conventional.  Was  this  his  masterpiece?  I 
lifted  my  eyes  to  my  dressing-table  mirror  op- 
posite and  was  startled  at  the  hard  contempt 
which  made  my  face  rigid. 


[  81  ]  CHAP.  IX 

The  subject  was  never  alluded  to  again  be- 
tween us,  but  I  can  see,  as  I  look  back,  that  all 
the  small  differences  and  uncongenialities  be- 
tween Irving  and  me  were  accentuated  from 
that  time.  I  had  suddenly  become  aware  of  his 
limitations  and  alarmed  at  his  mediocrity.  Suc- 
cess and  distinction  were  vital  elements  in  my 
scheme  of  life.  A  result  of  this  disappointment 
was  that  I  shortly  after  threw  myself  into  the 
study  of  architecture,  and  although  a  fierce 
shame  and  scorn  lay  beneath  my  purpose,  it  was 
carried  out  practically  and  in  dead  seriousness. 
In  a  year  I  was  a  better  artist  in  his  profession 
than  my  husband.  He  was  the  better  craftsman. 

Meanwhile  life  did  not  go  over-joyously  for 
me.  Irving  had  reached  before  our  marriage 
a  respectable  position  professionally,  and  we 
had  fancied  rapid  advancement  sure  from  that 
point  on.  But,  on  the  contrary,  at  that  point  he 
stuck  fast.  Our  income  was  far  too  small  for 
our  tastes  and  requirements,  a  condition  which 
was  intensified  in  a  way  after  my  mother's  death, 
put  nearly  all  my  inheritance  from  her 

6 


CHAP.  IX  [  82  ] 

property  into  the  purchase  and  enlargement  of 
the  house,  which  we  had  hired  heretofore.  The 
more  elaborate  establishment  called  for  an  in- 
crease in  yearly  expenditure  beyond  our  actual 
resources,  and  a  chronic  friction  and  uneasiness 
ensued. 

Under  this  condition  my  husband's  peculiar 
natural  caution  gave  rise  to  an  almost  morbid 
anxiety  regarding  every  line  of  expenditure. 
He  grew  moody  and  despondent;  he  fretted 
over  petty  details  in  the  economy  of  the  house- 
hold in  a  way  which  grated  upon  me  indescri- 
bably as  unmanly,  small,  even  mean.  The  free- 
hearted hospitality  of  our  earlier  married  life 
was  shorn  off  as  an  extravagance  and  we  lived, 
especially  the  year  after  my  mother's  death,  in 
a  narrow,  monotonous  and,  to  my  thinking,  sor- 
did fashion.  Always  just  below  the  surface,  in 
my  own  mind,  lay  the  brooding  consciousness 
that  it  was  Irving's  incapacity  which  brought 
all  this  about.  For  this  reason  I  resented,  al- 
though silently,  the  yoke  of  petty  domestic  tyr- 
anny which  he  pressed  down,  often  unmerci- 


[  83  ]  CHAP.  IX 

fully  I  thought,  upon  me.  I  also  found  his  fits 
of  despondency  hard  to  bear  patiently.  I  had 
reasons  for  low  spirits  myself,  but  I  did  not  in- 
flict my  humors  upon  other  people.  Like  most 
women  I  let  my  glooms  escape  with  the  first 
chance  for  release  and  gaiety.  Men  regard 
their  dark  moods,  I  have  sometimes  thought, 
as  a  sacred  trust,  to  be  consistently  adminis- 
tered and  not  lightly  interfered  with.  In  spite 
of  these  disparities,  however,  Irving  and  I  con- 
tinued good  comrades,  loyal  to  each  other's 
interests  and  affectionately  courteous  in  the 
daily  interchange  of  home  life. 


NEAELY  three  years  passed  before  I  spoke 
with  Ross  Kimball  again.  He  always  saluted 
me  with  ceremonious  courtesy  when  we  met  at 
church,  as  sometimes  happened,  in  going  out  or 
coming  in.  That  was  all. 

Then  there  came  a  notable  reception  on  New 

Year's  eve  at  the  Club  Rooms,  given  in 

honor  of  two  eminent  German  scientists.  Dr. 
Kirke  had  these  celebrities  largely  upon  his 
hands  and  he  had  pressed  Irving  into  service 
to  carry  out  their  social  entertainment,  for 
which  he  felt  himself  poorly  equipped,  above 
all  to  act  as  master  of  ceremonies  for  the  pres- 
ent function.  As  Irving  spoke  German  fluently 
and  the  Frau  Doctor  and  Frau  Professor  who 
had  accompanied  their  husbands  across  the 
water  spoke  English  not  at  all,  he  was  essen- 
tially useful.  I  observed  with  quiet  pride  how 


[  85  ]  CHAP.  IX 

finely  my  husband  carried  himself  and  how  well 
he  looked — a  dark,  slender,  refined  man,  still 
with  a  tinge  of  melancholy  in  his  face  and  of 
reserve  in  his  maner,  but  gracious,  gentle  and 
accomplished  in  social  intercourse.  I  could  still 
say  that  he  never  offended  my  taste.  That  he 
could  disappoint  my  ambition  and  fall  short  of 
commanding  my  worship — that  was  something 
buried  as  far  as  might  be  below  the  surface  of 
my  heart  and  consciousness. 

The  beautiful  rooms  were  thronged  that 
night  and  one  met  all  sorts  of  unexpected  peo- 
ple, Boston's  most  weird,  most  exclusive,  most 
eccentric,  most  fashionable.  Ross  KimbalPs 
presence  I  noted  promptly.  Dr.  Kirke  himself 
was  a  rare  guest  in  such  places.  I  observed  a 
certain  lack  of  social  facility  in  his  anxious 
brow  and  abrupt  movements.  Still  I  was  bound 
to  admit  to  myself  that  he  looked  a  noteworthy 
man,  impressive,  striking,  even  in  the  company 
of  these  savants,  for  the  intellectual  power  and 
massive  strength  of  his  face  and  head.  His 
figure  was  thick  set  and  ungraceful,  the  shoul- 


CHAP.  X  [  86  ] 

ders  disproportionately  broad.  He  was  accom- 
panied by  his  sister,  Sarah  Kirke,  whom  I  had 
never  seen  before  but  of  whom  I  had  heard 
many  things.  The  brother  and  sister,  both  un- 
married, and  both  physicians,  had  a  large  old 

mansion  in  C ,  with  a  beautiful  garden.    To 

this  home  they  invited  from  time  to  time  such 
of  their  patients  as  were  peculiarly  needy  or 
forlorn  and  cared  for  them  at  their  own  ex- 
pense; in  short,  they  carried  on  a  kind  of  pri- 
vate sanatorium  on  a  benevolent  basis  with 
Sarah  as  interne  and  head  nurse.  This  Dr. 
Kirke's  practise,  now  chiefly  that  of  consulting 
physician  and  surgeon,  enabled  them  to  do,  as 
they  had  no  taste  for  society  and  luxurious 
living. 

I  had  had  some  little  curiosity  to  meet 
Sarah  Kirke,  who  was  considered  a  very  able 
woman  and  was  a  marked  individuality  in 
C .  She  was  older  than  her  brother,  deci- 
dedly clever  looking  I  perceived,  dressed  pecul- 
iarly, something  after  the  fashion  of  a  Method- 
ist deaconess  out  on  a  lark,  I  thought,  and  she 


[  87  ]  CHAP.  X 

was  so  homely  that  beside  her  the  Doctor  looked 
absolutely  handsome.  With  the  same  physiog- 
nomy, the  firm,  square  nose,  prominent  brow, 
the  long  upper  lip  and  irregular  jaw,  Miss 
Kirke's  features  were  so  much  worse  than 
her  brother's  as  to  give  him  marked  advantage. 
Perhaps  it  was  rather  that  the  traits  which  in  a 
woman  were  harsh  in  a  man  were  powerful. 
And  still  there  was  a  spiritual  illumination 
in  Sarah  Kirke's  face  which  gave  it  remarkable 
elevation  and  refinement. 

I  had  been  introduced  to  Miss  Kirke :  some 
one  had  brought  us  ices  at  the  moment  and  we 
found  seats  together.  The  evening  was  half 
over.  I  took  advantage  of  the  opportunity  to 
remove  my  long,  black  suede  gloves.  I  always 
made  short  work  of  gloves,  my  hands  and  arms 
being  perhaps  my  best  points.  I  wore  that  night 
(a  year  had  passed  since  my  mother's  death,  I 
remember)  a  clinging  black  satin  gown,  as  close- 
fitting,  as  lusterless  and  as  fine  of  texture  as  the 
gloves  I  had  just  stripped  off.  The  gown  was 
sleeveless  and  low  cut,  quite  off  the  shoulder, 


CHAP.  X  [  88  ] 

and  perfectly  plain  aside  from  the  straps  of 
dull  jet  holding  the  bodice  in  place. 

Miss  Kirke  looked  at  me  with  a  peculiarly 
meditative  expression  in  her  eyes  which  I  have 
since  found  a  characteristic  of  her.  I  could  not 
decide  whether  she  approved  me  and  my  cos- 
tume or  not.  Probably  not,  all  things  consid- 
ered. 

"You  are — do  I  understand?"  she  asked, 
"the  wife  of  my  brother's  friend,  Irving 
Lloyd?" 

"  Yes,"  I  replied,  smiling,  with  an  effort  to 
please  if  possible  this  very  homely  and  impera- 
tive but  very  eminent  woman,  even  if  she  was  a 
Methodist. 

"  Strange,"  she  said,  "  I  had  never  heard 
that  he  was  married." 

I  experienced  a  distinctly  unpleasant  sensa- 
tion at  these  words.  One  prefers  always  to 
have  one's  existence  admitted,  even  if  unfavor- 
able opinions  of  one's  personality  are  probable. 
So  Dr.  Kirke  had  never  mentioned  me!  That 
was  a  return  for  my  ignoring  of  him  which  on 


[  89  ]  CHAP.  X 

second  thought  I  found  rather  to  be  admired. 
It  was  in  good  taste  and  not  overdone.  Prob- 
ably it  was  the  simple  consequence  of  the  fact 
that  he  had  never  thought  of  me  a  second  time 
while  I  had  been  fighting  hot  battles  in  my  heart 
with  him  whenever  I  remembered  his  chilling 
bruskness  at  our  first  meeting.  We  had  met 
only  casually  and  at  long  intervals  since  then, 
and  had  never  got  on  together. 

Miss  Kirke's  remark  gave  me  a  disagreeable 
sensation,  as  I  have  said,  but  I  replied  with  an 
innocent  unconscious  remark  to  the  effect  that 
we  had  in  fact  been  married  three  years  and 

that  we  had  a  little  home  of  our  own  in  C , 

not  very  far  from  Miss  Kirke's  own  beautiful 
residence. 

"  I  have  no  doubt  your  house  is  very  artis- 
tic," she  said,  still  regarding  me  with  that  air 
of  quiet,  discriminating  contemplation. 

"  Well,  I  think  it  is  rather  nice,"  I  said  in- 
genuously. "  My  husband  naturally  expresses 
his  temperament  and  tastes,  particularly  in  his 
immediate  surroundings." 


CHAP.  X  [  9O  ]       • 

She  interrupted  me  with  a  question  as  to  the 
location  of  our  house,  as  if  my  remark  were 
something  irrelevant.  We  talked  on  smoothly 
for  a  few  minutes,  until  suddenly  she  asked 
with  startling  directness,  "  Mr.  Lloyd  is  doing 
very  well  in  his  profession,  is  he  not?  " 

To  my  relief  at  that  moment  I  saw  that  Ross 
Kimball  was  obviously  making  his  way  in  our 
direction.  I  began  to  have  a  certain  dread 
of  this  particularly  pointed  method  of  Miss 
Kirke's  conversation,  although  I  believed  that 
I  should  not  dislike  her.  But  Mr.  Kimball  was 
much  more  to  the  purpose  on  this  occasion  with- 
out doubt.  He  had  glanced  at  me  several  times, 
I  knew  perfectly,  during  the  evening,  without 
fully  recognizing  me.  He  was  looking  younger 
and  more  brilliantly  handsome  than  I  had  seen 
him  before.  Full  dress  suited  him  notably. 

I  replied  with  cordial,  even  enthusiastic  as- 
sent to  Miss  Kirke's  question,  gave  her  a  little 
terminating,  apologetic  word  as  I  rose,  set  my 
sherbet  glass  on  a  table  behind  me,  gathered  my 
long  gloves  and  black  ostrich-feather  fan  in  my 


[  91  ]  CHAP.  X 

hand  and  turned  just  at  the  right  moment  to 
receive  Ross  Kimball  with  the  proper  little  ac- 
cent of  surprise.  He  greeted  me  as  if  we  were 
particularly  good  friends  who  had  parted  but  a 
day  before,  remarking  when  we  had  shaken 
hands  that  gloves  were  of  all  eccentricities  of 
the  toilet  the  most  inelegant,  and  quietly  re- 
moving his  own.  He  gave  me  his  arm  then  and 
we  walked  on  through  the  rooms  and  galleries 
in  the  direction  of  the  ballroom,  he  bending  his 
head  at  a  most  admirable  angle  to  listen  to  my 
remarks,  and  tingeing  all  that  he  said  himself 
with  delicate  implied  compliment.  Again,  as 
on  the  evening  when  he  came  to  my  house,  his 
presence  sent  a  strange  sensation  like  a  mild 
electric  current  through  all  my  nerves.  He  re- 
called with  something  almost  approaching  sen- 
timent as  we  walked  on,  that  stormy  evening 
when  he  had  sat  with  me  by  my  fireside,  at  my 
tea-table,  "  so  exquisitely  appointed,  and  even 
more  exquisitely  served." 

He  said,  laughingly,  that  a  woman  with  my 
coloring  ought  always  to  be  seen  just  coming  in 


CHAP.  X  [  92  ] 

from  a  furious  storm  unless  it  were  possible  to 
see  her  in  evening  dress.  He  made  me  know 
that  he  knew  a  fine  woman  when  he  saw  her,  and 
that  I  was  at  the  moment  marvelously  to  his 
taste.  Still,  his  flattery  was  refined  and  for- 
bearing and  did  not  offend.  Bather,  it  came 
with  healing  effect  to  the  deep  and  always  ach- 
ing wound  my  pride  had  received  in  his  rejec- 
tion of  Irving's  work  and  in  his  failure  to  follow 
up  in  any  wise  the  acquaintance  with  myself, 
an  event  which  I  had  secretly  but  confidently 
anticipated.  I  had  then,  after  all,  made  some 
slight  impression. 

We  had  approached  the  ballroom,  without 
explicit  purpose  or  intention,  drawn  by  the  gen- 
eral movement  in  that  direction  and  by  the  very 
beautiful  music ;  we  now  reached  a  broad  land- 
ing from  which  half  a  dozen  shallow  steps, 
richly  carpeted,  led  down  to  its  wide-open  doors. 
We  paused  then,  looking  into  the  brilliant,  mov- 
ing scene  below.  Behind  us  were  several  deep 
window-niches  with  cushioned  seats.  My  com- 
panion led  me  to  one  of  these.  "  See,"  he  said, 


[  93  ]  CHAP.  X 

"we  can  watch  the  dancing  from  here  as  well 
and  at  the  same  time  not  miss  the  chance  I  have 
so  long  wanted  for  a  little  conversation." 

I  looked  up  to  find  his  eyes  resting  upon  my 
face,  alight  with  a  strange,  cold  ardor  which 
confused  me  and  yet  gave  me  a  sense  of  keen 
exultation. 

"I  want  to  talk  with  you  about  your  hus- 
band's work,"  he  began  again.  I  grew  cold  at 
the  words,  and  my  heart  sank  with  nameless 
pain.  He  was  going  to  tell  me  wherein  Irving 
had  failed  three  years  ago  in  those  wretched 
depot  plans ;  he  was  eager  to  justify  himself  at 
my  husband's  expense.  Not  a  difficult  thing  to 
do  I  knew  perfectly,  all  the  same  he  should  learn 
that  a  wife  does  not  discuss  her  husband's  fail- 
ings with  a  stranger.  I  lifted  my  eyes  and  head 
with  instant  honest  resistance,  and  met  a  fixed 
ironical  scrutiny  in  Ross  Kimball's  eyes. 

"I  hear,"  he  continued  gently,  "that  Mr. 
Lloyd  has  been  doing  such  extremely  clever 
work  lately."  With  this  my  cheeks  tingled  and, 
I  knew,  flushed  deeply.  "  I  can  not  tell  you  now 


CHAP.  X  [  94  J 

in  how  many  different  ways  it  has  come  to  me. 

That  school  building  in  R ,  you  know,  and 

Mr.  Sartorius's  house  are  capital  work,  and 
they  are  bringing  Mr.  Lloyd  very  generally  into 
notice,  as  you  probably  are  aware." 

I  knew  perfectly  that  he  overstated  the 
case,  and  yet  my  whole  self,  body  and  mind, 
thrilled  with  grateful  surprise  and  a  secret 
curious  mingling  of  pain  and  pleasure  in  the 
knowledge  that  many  features  in  the  work  he 
praised  were  my  own,  not  Irving's.  "What  would 
come  next?  Something  in  Boss  Kimball's  tone 
warned  me  that  the  climax  was  not  yet  reached 
in  this  notable  interview. 

"Yes,  I  am  keeping  an  eye  on  your  hus- 
band," he  said  after  I  had  expressed  my  pleas- 
ure as  well  as  I  could ;  "  possibly  you  have 
heard  that  I  am  building  myself  at  N ." 

I  had  indeed.  All  our  world  was  discussing 
the  fact  of  Ross  Kimball's  purchase  of  a  mag- 
nificent site  in  the  next  suburb  to  our  own  and 
his  erection  of  the  usual  American  millionaire's 
palace.  It  had  been  one  of  my  secret  sores  that 


[  95  ]  CHAP.  X 

in  this  building  scheme,  in  which  a  number  of 
architects  must  be  employed,  Irving  had,  of 
course,  no  part  or  lot.  Had  he  not  already  been 
weighed  in  the  balances  and  found  wanting? 

I  looked  down  bewildered,  dazzled  with  the 
flaring  up  of  flames  from  those  old  dead  embers. 
How  strange  to  sit  so  close  to  this  man  that  my 
skirt  brushed  his  foot,  his  breath  my  hair,  to 
feel  him  near,  kind,  companionable,  apparently 
on  an  equal  footing,  intimate  almost,  and  to 
know  that  in  his  hands,  in  his  will,  Irving  and 
I  were  lying  like  helpless  clay  which  he  could 
in  some  sense  mold  or  mar  as  he  chose.  A  shiv- 
ering dread  came  over  me  and  I  grew  dizzy. 
Just  then  my  hand  was  taken  in  Eoss  Kimball's 
hand. 

"  Come,"  he  said,  rising,  quite  as  if  our  con- 
versation had  been  of  a  most  indifferent  sort, 
"  Auf  Wiedersehen  is  irresistible." 

Besting  on  his  arm  I  passed  down  the  broad, 
softly  carpeted  steps  as  if  I  were  in  a  dream, 
entered  the  ballroom  with  its  surge  of  lights, 
sound,  fragrance  and  color  and  in  another  mo- 


CHAP.  X  [  96  ] 

ment  we  were  moving  together  in  the  harmony 
of  perfect  rhythm  and  motion. 

For  a  moment  as  his  arm  encircled  my  body, 
my  bare  arm  in  its  whiteness  resting  upon  his 
black  sleeve,  his  eyes  straying  over  my  shoul- 
ders, I  seemed  to  myself  to  have  slipped  my 
black  satin  sheath  and  to  be  whirling  in  some 
shameless,  unthinkable  Walpurgis-night  revel. 
The  hideous  delusion  passed  swiftly,  mysteri- 
ously, as  it  came.  I  saw  again,  in  my  partner, 
the  courtly,  correct  man  of  the  world,  and  in 
myself  the  stainless  young  wife,  clothed  with 
chastity  in  default  of  adequate  raiment,  as  re- 
quired by  convention. 

We  danced  again,  and  after  that  again  and 
all  the  other  dancers  watched  us.  All  that  Ross 
Kimball  did  was  of  importance.  When  he  took 
me  back  to  the  reception-room  and  there  left  me 
he  said  carelessly, 

"  And  you  must  not  forget  to  tell  Mr.  Lloyd 
that  I  hope  he  will  interest  himself  in  that  new 
house  of  mine." 

"  I  will  try  not  to  forget !  "  I  cried,  flashing 


[  97  ]  CHAP.  X 

back  at  him  with  joyous  daring  my  perception 
that  he  knew  perfectly  the  tremendous  signifi- 
cance to  us  of  such  a  word  from  him. 

I  stood  alone  for  a  moment,  seeing  Irving 
crossing  to  meet  me.  My  heart  pounded  hard 
against  my  side,  and  all  my  blood  seemed  on 
fire;  only  my  head  was  clear  and  cool.  I  felt 
intuitively  that  the  situation  held  elements  of 
danger,  but  the  hope  of  swift  achievement  of 
name  and  power  for  my  husband  was  high,  and 
worth  running  risks  for,  since  I  firmly  believed 
in  myself.  Yes,  I  dared  to  play  the  game. 

The  passion  of  love  I  had  come  to  regard  as 
a  distemper  which  I  might  reasonably  hope  to 
escape,  having  escaped  it,  alas !  thus  far  in  my 
life. 


XI 


IRVING  was  retained  as  an  architect  on  the 
Eoss  Kimball  residence  without  further  effort 
or  ceremony. 

The  part  assigned  him  in  the  building  ope- 
rations was  the  working  out  of  the  interior 
finish  and  decoration  of  the  great  west  wing, 
which  for  various  reasons  had  been  thus  far  left 
unaccomplished.  In  this  wing  Mr.  Kimball  was 
to  have  a  large  and  lofty  music-room,  ap- 
proached through  a  suite  of  smaller  apart- 
ments, while  the  wing  was  to  terminate  in  a 
massive  battlemented  octagonal  tower.  The 
lower  floor  of  this  tower  would  consist  entirely 
of  the  owner's  private  library,  while  the  upper 
part,  a  smaller  octagonal  chamber  over  the  li- 
brary enclosed  by  a  wide  corridor,  would  be 
left  unfinished.  This  tower  room  would  be  used, 
temporarily  at  least,  as  a  storeroom  for  the  re- 


[  99  ]  CHAP.  XI 

ception  of  cases  of  books,  paintings  and  other 
importations  which  Mr.  Kimball  was  continu- 
ally receiving  from  Europe  and  the  East.  Mr. 
Owen  was  even  then  abroad,  collecting  for  his 
friend. 

Irving  had  nothing  to  consider,  at  least  for 
the  time,  regarding  the  upper  part  of  the  tower. 
His  attention  was  to  be  given  exclusively  to  the 
library  below,  to  the  music-room  and  the  suite 
of  small  rooms  adjoining,  their  walls,  windows, 
wainscots,  floors,  decorations,  even  their  fur- 
nishing. His  plans  were  all  subject  to  the  ad- 
vice and  approval  of  the  chief  architect,  Mr. 
Hook.  Upon  him  it  became  necessary,  first  of 
all,  to  make  a  satisfactory  impression  as  to 
Irving's  capacity  to  carry  out  so  important  an 
undertaking. 

This  time  my  husband  did  not  work  alone, 
and,  hard  as  he  worked,  I  worked  harder  yet. 
There  must  be  no  such  word  as  fail.  Together 
or  separately  we  visited  the  show  places  of  the 
country,  north  and  south,  and  all  the  great  im- 
porting and  designing  establishments.  But  this 


CHAP.  XI  [  1OO  ] 

was  simply  preliminary.  The  real  work  for  me 
consisted  in  fairly  steeping  myself  in  primitive 
and  classic  art,  in  orientalism  and  medievalism, 
in  the  development  of  design  and  decoration, 
wood-carving,  leather-working;  in  knowing 
stained  and  painted  glass  historically  and  tech- 
nically, in  mastering  the  whole  range  of  symbolic 
ornament.  Oh  how  I  worked,  and  how  I  loved  it ! 
Never  could  work  have  been  better  suited  to  the 
worker.  At  last  I  seemed  to  find  that  which  I 
was  fitted  to  do.  All  my  inheritance  of  artistic 
temperament  had  now  free  play.  Then  my 
imagination  and  fancy  suddenly  sprang  into 
energy.  From  studying  and  amassing  detail 
at  one  certain  time  I  awoke  to  the  perception 
that  I  could  coordinate,  could  combine,  could 
even  create.  I  was  sitting  that  June  morning 
in  the  Public  Library  at  a  table  heaped  high 
with  books.  The  intellectual  passion  of  that 
moment  of  illumination  I  can  never  forget. 
Laden  with  books  and  papers  I  walked  straight 
out  of  the  library  and  down  Boylston  Street  to 
Irving's  office.  I  found  him  alone  at  his  desk 


[  1O1  ]  CHAP.  XI 

bending  laboriously  over  the  ground  plan  of 
the  Kimball  house. 

"  Look  here,  Irving,"  I  cried,  "  I  have  some- 
thing to  show  you,  something  to  give  you !  Here 
is  our  keynote  for  the  whole  mural  decoration 
of  the  west  wing.  It  is  a  discovery.  You  will 
see  I  am  right.  We  shall  modify,  and  improve 
and  correct,  but  the  motif  is  here  to  be  elab- 
orated and  it  means  success.  Oh,  Irving,  I  can 
not  be  mistaken !  " 

Then  I  sat  down  beside  him  at  the  desk  and 
sketched  out  my  notion  rapidly  but  with  a  sure 
touch. 

The  work  before  us  lay  essentially  in  three 
divisions.  First  as  one  left  the  central  part  of 
the  house  came  the  two  reception  or  conversa- 
tion rooms,  opening  from  a  central  hall ;  second, 
the  music-room ;  and,  approached  from  that  by 
a  vestibule,  the  great  octagon  library.  In  my 
conception  we  had  here  a  logical  sequence,  per- 
fectly simple  and  natural;  first,  speech,  then 
music,  lastly  silence — the  silence  of  brooding 
thought,  the  climax  and  the  matrix  also  of  both 


CHAP.  XI  [  102  ] 

the  others.  By  another  interpretation  the  gra- 
dation, of  thought  might  be  described  as  the  so- 
cial gaiety  of  the  Child,  the  poetic  glory  and 
rapture  of  the  Youth,  the  intellectual  power  and 
mastery  of  the  Mature  Man.  The  beginning  I 
would  have  oriental— vivid,  brilliant,  full  of 
warmth  and  color.  The  music-room  I  would 
make  pure  Greek  and  fill  it  with  esthetic  joy  and 
harmony.  Its  walls  should  show  in  painting, 
and  also  if  possible  in  tapestry,  the  story  of 
Orpheus ;  Apollo  and  Daphne ;  Euterpe,  Terpsi- 
chore, Echo  and  Narcissus,  singing  dryads  and 
piping  fauns.  The  vestibule,  by  which  the  li- 
brary was  approached,  should  give  the  note  of 
Greco-Egyptian  art,  as  of  Alexandria,  in  me- 
dallions of  the  Ptolemies,  while  figures  of  Pom- 
pey,  Cleopatra,  Caesar  and  Mark  Antony  should 
suggest  the  Roman.  The  library  itself  should 
be  pure  Egyptian,  massive,  grave,  profoundly 
intellectual  in  significance  and  symbol.  Such 
was  my  thought  in  its  first  inception. 

For  an  hour  I  met  objections.     Irving  al- 
ways  saw  these  predominant  in  every  unfa- 


[  1O3  ]  CHAP.  XI 

miliar  thing.  His  mind  moved  slowly,  cau- 
tiously, painfully  even  to  its  conclusions.  My 
joyous,  triumphant  excitement  cooled  rapidly. 
I  remained  outwardly  patient  but  inwardly  I 
was  consumed  with  weariness  and  disappoint- 
ment. It  was  all  perfectly  reasonable,  inevi- 
table as  I  can  see  more  clearly  now.  Irving  had 
not  been  traveling  the  path  by  which  I  had 
dashed  to  my  discovery:  he  was  at  this  time 
absorbed  in  conscientiously  mastering  neces- 
sary details  of  material  and  measurement.  He 
was  not  ready  yet  for  this  phase  of  the  thing. 
It  was  premature.  I  had  outrun  his  thought. 
He  would  try  to  meet  me ;  but  it  must  be  done  by 
gradual  approach  and  careful  process.  His 
mind  could  not  leap  instantly  to  the  perception 
of  what  I  had  done.  But  what  I  longed  for  then 
was  somebody  who  could  leap  to  that  percep- 
tion, somebody  who  could  exult  with  me  in  the 
beauty  and  the  satisfaction  of  the  artistic  in- 
stinct which  I  had  found. 

At  the  end  of  an  hour  Irving  leaned  back  in 
his  chair,  and  said  with  forbearing  kindness, 


CHAP.  XI  [  1O4  ] 

"  I  can  see  that  it  might  be  really  very  good, 
Sidney.  You  are  certainly  the  cleverest  girl! 
How  proud  We  shall  be  by-and-by  when  this  is 
all  worked  out  1 " 

I  rose  then,  gathered  up  my  papers  and  went 
to  the  office  door.  I  felt  my  lips  quiver  and  did 
not  try  to  speak.  Irving  had  already  drawn  his 
own  plan  back  to  position. 

"  Good-by,  dearest,'*  he  said,  not  turning  his 
head ;  "  don't  wait  dinner  for  me  to-night,  I  shall 
be  very  late." 

I  came  slowly  down  three  flights  of  stairs  to 
avoid  facing  the  elevator  boy  and  to  gain  time 
to  win  back  a  street  countenance.  When  I 
reached  the  street  door  I  saw  at  once,  across  the 
narrow  sidewalk,  a  shining  trap,  with  a  pair  of 
blooded  horses  which  I  knew  as  Boss  Kimball's. 
Mr.  Kimball  himself  then  suddenly  appeared ;  I 
did  not  see  from  where  he  came.  He  held  out 
his  hand  as  if  he  had  been  watching  for  me  and 
looked  at  me  with  a  sudden  change  of  expres- 
sion. 

"  Good  morning,"  he  said  quickly,  hastening 


[  1O5  ]  CHAP.  XI 

on ;  then,  "  Come,  I  am  sure  you  are  tired  or  not 
well.  You  look  quite  out  of  spirits.  You  need 
a  good  breath  of  fresh  air*  I  will  take  you  out 
to  C and  safe  home." 

Without  waiting  for  me  either  to  decline  or 
consent  he  immediately  assisted  me  to  a  place 
in  the  trap,  took  the  seat  by  my  side  and  before 
I  quite  realized  what  had  happened  we  were 
spinning  away  at  a  great  pace  over  a  smooth 
pavement.  I  found  it  vastly  more  stimulating 
than  the  transit  I  had  anticipated  in  the  electric 
car.  Nothing  was  said  until  the  bridge  was 
crossed.  At  first  I  am  sure  I  could  not  have 
spoken,  for  I  had  the  big  sob  in  my  throat  which 
a  child  has  when  some  one  has  hurt  it  and  some 
one  else  has  been  pitiful  to  it.  Tears  were  near 
the  brim. 

"  This  is  better,"  Ross  Kimball  said,  at  last. 
"  You  are  getting  back  your  color  and  begin  to 
look  like  yourself.  What  are  you  doing  in  these 
days  that  you  get  so  tired  over?  What  makes 
you  stay  such  long  hours  in  the  library  and 
carry  around  with  you  loads  of  books  which 


CHAP.  XI  [  1O6  ] 

ought  to  be  borne  behind  you  by  a  slave !  What- 
ever it  is  I  object  to  it!  " 

At  this  I  laughed,  nervously,  consciously,  at 
first,  and  then,  catching  the  element  of  pure  com- 
edy in  the  situation,  merrily  and  naturally.  My 
face  relaxed,  I  dashed  off  a  tear  or  two  unseen, 
and  a  strong  reaction  of  spirit  came  upon  me. 
In  the  bottom  of  my  heart  still  lay  the  new  sense 
of  joy  and  power  which  the  morning's  experi- 
ence had  founded  there.  Irving  might  have  no 
more  perception  of  what  I  had  done  than  that 
wooden  Indian  at  the  tobacconist's  door  we  were 
just  passing.  But  I  knew  I  had  done  a  good 
thing,  and  I  exulted  in  the  power  to  do  it.  And 
all  unknown  to  him  it  was  for  this  man  beside 
me  I  had  done  it,  this  man  with  the  subtle  beauty 
of  his  face,  the  caressing  irony  in  his  eyes,  the 
quiet  command  in  his  ways,  the  man  who  also 
had  power  and  had  won  it  himself!  And  he 
watched  all  my  motions,  it  seemed,  and  was 
strangely  acquainted  with  my  ways.  What  did 
this  signify?  How  long  we  drove  I  do  not  know. 
I  think  it  was  for  hours.  I  knew  that  throughout 


[  107  ]  CHAP.  XI 

the  time  I  was  lifted  altogether  out  of  myself; 
all  my  perceptions  seemed  strangely  quickened, 
I  was  bold  in  retort,  witty  in  repartee,  gay,  au- 
dacious— yes,  I  was  and  I  knew  it,  fascinating 
to  my  very  finger-tips  to  the  man  beside  me.  I 
was  willing  to  be.  It  was  for  Irving' s  interest 
that  I  should  be,  quite  as  much  as  for  my  own. 
There  was  need  enough,  I  told  myself  with  an 
involuntary  curl  of  my  lip,  that  one  of  us  should 
wake  up  and  do  something. 

We  drove  out  to  the  new  house  and  stopped 
before  it  for  a  few  moments  while  Ross  Kim- 
ball  pointed  out  to  me  the  general  plan.  In  the 
central  portion  would  be,  besides  the  usual 
rooms,  the  great  picture  and  organ  gallery;  in 
the  east  wing,  he  said,  Mrs.  Kimball  would  have 
her  private  suite  of  apartments.  I  had  never 
heard  him  mention  his  wife  before.  She  was 
seldom  seen,  little  known;  but  said  to  be  exclu- 
sive, well  born  and  bred  and  an  invalid.  As 
we  returned  homeward  we  passed  Dr.  Kirke's 
residence  and  I  bowed  to  Miss  Kirke  who  was 
entering  the  gate  at  the  time.  Ross  Kimball  un- 


CHAP.  XI  [  108  ] 

covered  and  bent  forward  in  respectful  saluta- 
tion. 

"  She  must  be  very  clever,"  I  said,  "  and  so 
very  good." 

"  By  Jove ! "  lie  cried,  "  she  has  got  to  be. 
When  a  woman  is  as  homely  as  that  all  she  can 
do  to  atone  is  to  be  both  clever  and  good.  A 
pretty  woman  need  not  be  either  unless  she  has 
a  fancy  for  it.  But  when  you  find  a  woman  who 
has  all  three — beauty,  wit  and  goodness — and 
enchantment  thrown  in — "  He  broke  off  there. 

"  Yes,  when  you  do,"  I  said  carelessly ;  "  but 
that  happens  hardly  ever  I  should  think." 

"  Hardly  ever,  indeed,"  he  said,  then  added 
under  his  breath,  "but  when  it  does,  Heaven 
help  a  man !  " 

I  knew  his  eyes  were  resting  fully  upon  my 
face.  To  keep  my  own  downcast  was  to  look 
absurd  and  self-conscious.  I  glanced  up  care- 
lessly. I  was  surprised  at  the  look  of  profound 
gravity,  of  concentration,  on  his  face.  It  was 
wholly  destitute  of  flattery  or  complaisance. 
Usually  in  my  presence  Mr.  KimbalPs  range  of 


[  1O9  ]  CHAP.  XI 

expression,  though  varied,  was,  with  rare  ex- 
ceptions, of  a  superficial,  conventional  order. 
The  look  I  now  saw  I  had  never  seen  before.  It 
impressed  me,  not  as  the  look  of  the  society 
man,  but  as  that  of  the  general,  the  great  finan- 
cier, the  man  who  does  things.  There  was  power 
of  some  sort  in  it,  power  and  mastery.  The  man 
was  formidable,  this  I  felt  through  and  through. 

A  few  days  later  I  received  a  visit  from 
Sarah  Kirke,  who  had,  it  seemed,  made  up  her 
mind,  unlike  her  brother,  that  I  was  not  to  be 
ignored.  I  appreciated  the  honor  shown  me  in 
this  visit  from  a  woman  so  eminent  and  so 
closely  occupied.  I  found  her  one  of  those  per- 
sons who  grow  attractive  as  one  grows  familiar 
with  their  characteristics.  On  this  occasion  her 
face  seemed  to  me  full  of  expressive  energy  and 
even  of  a  sort  of  charm.  She  talked  exceedingly 
well  and  everything  she  said  showed  a  peculiar 
large-mindedness  as  well  as  kindliness.  When 
she  rose  to  leave  she  took  my  hand  and  said, 

"You  are  very  young  and  you  have  lost 
your  mother.  May  I  venture  to  say  a  word  to 


CHAP.  XI  [  11O  ] 

you  which  you  are  clever  enough  not  to  exag- 
gerate or  misunderstand? " 

"Indeed,"  I  replied,  "I  should  be  most 
grateful,  Miss  Kirke." 

"  Do  not  accept  many  favors  or  attentions 
from  Mr.  Ross  Kimball.  So  far  as  I  have  ever 
heard  or  wish  to  hear  he  is  as  virtuous  as  An- 
thony the  Eremite,  and  it  may  be  as  severely 
tempted,  but  he  is  a  man  of  the  world  and  enor- 
mously rich.  This  means  that  he  expects  to 
command  what  he  desires.  I  read  his  face  that 
night  when  I  was  beside  you  at  the  reception 
better  than  you  could,  perhaps.  That  is  all," 
and  she  said  good-by  and  left  without  waiting 
for  me  to  explain  or  promise  or  proceed  further 
with  the  subject. 

I  was  sorry  not  to  be  able  to  tell  her  that 
whatever  attention  I  received  from  the  great 
financier  was  purely  in  my  husband's  interests, 
and,  in  fact,  a  business  measure. 

During  the  month  which  followed  I  drove 
frequently  with  Boss  Kimball. 


XII 

IT  was  not  far  into  September,  late  one 
afternoon,  that  Dr.  Kirke  brought  Irving  home 
in  his  carriage,  and  told  me  that  he  must  be  put 
to  bed  and  looked  after. 

"  It  is  a  very  slight  feverish  attack,"  he  ex- 
plained, "  a  matter  of  a  week  at  most  I  hope.  I 
advise  you  to  have  a  nurse,  however." 

It  was  arranged  between  us  that  he  should 
send  a  nurse  to  the  house  during  the  evening 
and  with  that  he  hurried  off. 

"I  am  the  lucky  dog,"  said  Irving,  turning 
the  piteous  eyes  of  a  man  in  a  chill  up  to  me, 
with  a  pale  smile,  "  to  have  Kirke  look  after  me 
when  I  have  nothing  the  matter  with  me  worth 
bothering  an  apothecary  about.  Short  of  ap- 
pendicitis or  a  compound  fracture  I  should 
never  have  dared  invoke  aid  so  august  as  his." 


CHAP.  XII  [ 

"How  did  it  happen?"  I  asked,  bending 
over  to  bathe  his  temples. 

"  He  came  upon  me  at  Taylor's,  and  saw  I 
was  a  little  off  and  bore  me  home  in  his  chariot. 
I  know  you  can't  stand  him,  Sidney,  but  do  treat 
him  decently  for  my  sake.  He's  a  mighty  good 
friend  to  have,  I  tell  you ;  never  lets  me  pay  him 
a  cent,  you  know." 

"  I  will  be  angelic  to  him  if  he  will  take  care 
of  you,  love,"  I  said,  "  you  may  be  sure  of  that. 
You  need  me  though,  and  rest,  more  than  doc- 
tors and  nurses.  You  are  all  tired  out,  Irving. 
How  hard  my  poor  boy  has  worked !  " 

"Just  a  little  tired,  Sidney,"  he  murmured 
drowsily,  and  straightway  fell  asleep. 

It  was  but  two  days  before  that  Irving  had 
submitted  the  first  tentative  sketches  of  a 
scheme  for  his  part  in  the  Ross  Kimball  resi- 
dence to  Mr.  Hook  for  his  consideration  and 
criticism.  We  both  felt  that  a  keen  crisis  was 
on  and  the  strain  of  suspense  was  great  for  both 
of  us.  Irving  had  in  good  time  accepted  cor- 
dially my  general  conception  for  the  mural 


[  113  ]  CHAP.  XII 

decoration  of  the  reception  and  music  rooms 
and  library  and  it  had  been  sketched  out  and 
incorporated  among  the  other  drawings  and 
specifications  with  the  request  that  if  tapestries 
were  decided  upon,  Mr.  Kingman  Knox  should 
at  once  be  engaged  to  produce  the  suggested 
cartoons.  I  carefully  avoided  now  all  reference 
to  these  matters,  but  they  were  inevitably  fore- 
most in  our  thoughts,  and  I  plainly  saw  as  the 
days  passed  how  much  Irving's  restlessness 
and  general  malaise  were  increased  by  this  sus- 
pense. 

The  nurse,  Miss  Webster,  proved  to  be  a 
sensible,  satisfactory  young  woman  who  re- 
lieved Irving's  physical  discomforts  immensely 
with  her  strong,  steady  tending.  Dr.  Kirke  came 
every  day  and  stayed  sometimes  ten  or  fifteen 
minutes  with  Irving,  always  imparting  to  him 
fresh  vigor  as  well  as  repose.  I  sometimes  saw 
him  myself,  but  oftener  not.  He  gave  his  very 
simple  directions  to  the  nurse  and  had  plainly 
no  time  or  taste  for  chatter  or  for  private  disr 
cussion  of  his  patient.  The  house  door  was  al- 

8 


CHAP.  XII  [  114  ] 

ways  left  ready  for  him  to  open  without  stop- 
ping to  ring  and  he  would  often  run  upstairs, 
see  Irving  and  be  off  again  before  I  knew  of  his 
presence  in  the  house.  He  had  a  singularly 
light  and  rapid  .step  for  a  man  so  bulky  and  un- 
elastic.  His  care  of  Irving  gave  me  a  sense  of 
absolute  rest  and  assurance,  and  I  ceased  to  dis- 
like him  actively.  He  now  seemed  to  me  like 
some  silent,  but  potent  natural  force  which  it 
was  good  to  have  on  one's  side — important,  but 
to  me,  impersonal. 

Nearly  a  week  had  passed  thus  when  having 
heard  Dr.  Kirke  go  out  unusually  early  in  the 
morning  I  went  to  the  library  window  and 
watched  him  as  he  entered  his  brougham  with  a 
quick  word  to  the  coachman  and  drov6  off.  Ir- 
ving was  so  much  brighter  that  morning  that  I 
did  not  regret  especially  having  no  chance  to 
ask  the  Doctor  how  he  found  him.  Before  I 
turned  from  the  window  I  saw  the  postman 
coming  and  ran  to  the  door  to  take  the  letters. 
I  glanced  over  them  with  the  feverish  haste  now 
habitual  to  me,  for  any  word  or  sign  to  show 


[  115  ]  CHAP.  XII 

how  our  plans  had  been  received.  My  eye  at 
once  caught  a  pale-blue  envelope  addressed  in 
typewriting  to  Irving.  I  saw  my  fingers  trem- 
ble as  they  tore  the  envelope  open,  for  I  had  a 
sense  that  this  must  be  the  word  that  I  was 
watching  for.  The  letter  was  signed  by  a  name 
unknown  to  me  and  consisted  of  but  four  lines, 
which  said :  Mr.  G.  Ross  Kimball  had  instructed 
the  writer  (plainly  his  private  treasurer  or  sec- 
retary) to  remit  the  enclosed  check  to  Mr.  Lloyd 
as  an  initial  fee  for  plans  and  drawings  recently 
submitted  to  Mr.  Hook. 

My  heart  throbbed  wildly  with  excitement. 
I  longed  for  more  than  this  cold,  business  state- 
ment, however.  This  might  mean  only  that  Mr. 
Kimball  recognized  that  Irving  had  tried  his 
best,  but  the  best  not  being  good  enough  he 
would  pay  him  off  and  get  rid  of  him  as  easily 
as  possible.  I  went  slowly  into  the  library  and 
sat  down  by  the  very  scanty  open  fire;  wood 
was  too  expensive  to  burn  freely  for  my  comfort 
alone  at  that  early  hour.  Then  it  occurred  to 
me  to  look  at  the  check.  To  my  incredulous 


CHAP.  XII  [  116  ] 

amazement  it  seemed  to  have  been  drawn  to  the 
amount  of  five  thousand  dollars.  Of  course  it 
was  one  cipher  too  much,  added  accidentally! 
No,  I  found  it  again  plainly  written  out ;  it  was 
uniformly  five  thousand.  "  Great  Heavens !  "  I 
cried  aloud,  "  what  a  miracle !  what  a  fortune ! 
I  helieve  I  will  put  on  another  stick  of  wood  to 
celebrate,"  for  I  was  shaking,  not  with  cold,  but 
with  excitement.  This,  then,  was  the  way  rail- 
road kings  did  business ! 

I  started  to  run  up-stairs  and  tell  Irving  the 
wonderful  news,  but  recalled  the  fact  that  the 
nurse  was  giving  him  his  alcohol  bath  now, 
which  must  not  be  interrupted.  I  stood  at  the 
foot  of  the  stairs,  my  brain  whirling,  letter  and 
check  crushed  hard  in  my  hand.  I  caught  my 
reflection  in  the  oval  mirror  and  saw  that  my 
eyes  were  dancing  with  wonder  and  triumph, 
then  scanned  the  wall  beside  the  mirror  with  the 
sudden  practical  calculation  that  I  could  now 
afford  to  have  that  faded  paper  taken  off,  and 
perhaps  even  have  the  costly  decoration  I  had 
so  long  desired  in  its  place,  and  then — the  door- 
bell rang. 


[  117  ]  CHAP.  XII 

I  thrust  the  letter  and  check  into  my  pocket, 
crossed  the  hall  and  opened  the  door.  Boss 
Kimball  himself  stood  there. 

"  Mr.  Lloyd  is  better,"  he  said,  the  good- 
mornings  over ;  "  I  know  that  from  your  face. 
I  have  come  to  take  you  out  for  an  hour.  The 
morning  is  glorious,  perfect  summer  still  and 
you  haven't  been  out,  I'll  venture  to  say,  in  a 
week.  Come,  don't  stop  for  anything  but  your 
jacket  and  hat.  I'll  wait  for  you  in  the  cart," 
and  with  the  words  he  ran  down  the  steps. 
There  was  nothing  to  do  but  obey  him,  and  in- 
deed no  reason  why  I  should  not.  Irving  could 
not  see  me,  were  I  at  home,  for  an  hour,  and  I 
longed  to  carry  my  excitement  out  into  the  air 
and  see  how  the  world  looked  to  such  a  new- 
born capitalist  as  I  felt  myself. 

The  footman  had  held  the  reins  while  Mr. 
Kimball  had  stood  at  the  door,  I  remembered, 
but  when  I  went  out  to  the  cart  he  was  no  longer 
there.  For  the  first  time  we  were  to  have  a 
solitary  drive  then.  Had  it  all  been  planned — 
the  reception  of  the  check  at  this  hour,  and  this 


CHAP.  XII  [  118  ] 

so  soon  to  follow?  I  was  beginning  to  learn 
that  there  were  no  accidents  with  Boss  Kimball. 
Everything  was  the  product  of  fine  calculation 
and  strategic  forethought.  But  what  did  it  mat- 
ter? Irving  was  better;  the  morning  was  ex- 
quisite with  luminous  light  and  mist  and  the  air 
filled  with  the  sweet  pungent  smell  of  falling 
leaves ;  the  superb  horse,  in  his  shining  harness, 
was  fairly  quivering  with  spirit  and  life;  the 
cart  was  the  perfection  of  ease  and  fashionable 
elegance;  the  man  who  held  the  reins  could 
manipulate  world-wide  interests  no  less  easily, 
and  in  my  pocket  was  my  fortune,  Irving' s  and 
mine,  which  I  had  helped  to  win.  Great  ele- 
ments for  my  delight,  taken  altogether,  and  I 
drank  the  draught  with  a  will  and  found  it  de- 
licious. I  vaguely  hoped,  however,  that  I  might 
not  meet  any  of  Irving's  friends  or  my  own,  and 
somewhere  down  out  of  sight  within  me  was  one 
fixed  condition:  I  would  drink  the  draught  but 
never  should  it  intoxicate. 

"  I  can  only  drive  for  half  an  hour,"  I  said. 

"Very  well,"  Mr.  Kimball  returned  care- 


[  119  ]  CHAP.  XII 

lessly.  "You  look  like  some  Greek  goddess, 
Mrs.  Lloyd,  masquerading  as  a  college  boy,  in 
that  cap  and  coat." 

"  What  has  that  to  do  with  it?  You  are  not 
in  a  logical  vein  this  morning." 

"  No,  why  should  I  be1?  What  is  your  vein, 
I  should  be  pleased  to  ask?  There  is  enough 
electricity  about  you  this  morning  to  illuminate 
all  Boston." 

"  I  am  delirious,"  I  said  under  my  breath. 

"And  why?" 

I  was  about  to  say — "You  know,"  but  I 
could  not  for  some  reason  come  so  near  the 
great  event  in  words.  I  glanced  up  into  his 
face  and  found  his  half -quizzical  smile  resting 
upon  me  like  a  caress.  The  blood  rushed  into 
my  cheeks  and  stung  them. 

"  I  have  reason  to  believe  that  I  am  the  best 
pleased  man  in  the  State  this  morning,"  he  said 
quietly,  overriding  the  little  access  of  conscious- 
ness between  us  in  time,  as  he  always  knew  how 
to  do.  "  Mr.  Hook  has  been  showing  me  some 
plans  and  drawings  and  so  forth  for  my  west 


CHAP.  XII  [  13O  ] 

wing  which  strike  me,  as  they  do  him,  as  some- 
thing singularly  fine." 

Then  I  looked  up  unabashed.  Dr.  Kirke's 
brougham  passed  us  at  the  moment,  but  I  was 
sure  I  did  not  care. 

tl  Yes/'  said  Mr.  Kimball,  with  a  nod  and  a 
little  smile  at  my  eager  face,  "  I  must  ask  you 
to  congratulate  Mr.  Lloyd  on  his  exceedingly 
clever  work.  Mr.  Hook  is  enthusiastic,  which  is 
an  event,  as  you  know.  More  than  that,  he  is 
positively  envious,  and  will  probably  set  to 
work  how  to  undermine  your  husband's  influ- 
ence with  me." 

"  How  lovely  1 "  and  we  both  laughed. 

"Yes,  Hook  says  there  is  something  more 
than  ability  in  that  work.  There  is  a  touch  of 
genius  extremely  subtle  and  delicate — in  the 
scheme  of  decoration  for  the  walls  for  in- 
stance/' 

At  that  sudden  tears  of  acute  feeling  pricked 
my  eyes.  There  was  a  moment  of  silence. 

"  How  much  of  it  is  your  work? "  Eoss  Kim- 
ball  asked  then  coolly. 


]  CHAP.  XII 

"  A  little." 

"  Don't  lie  about  it,  please.  It  is  unneces- 
,  sary.  Do  you  think  I  can  not  see  where  plod- 
ding stops  and  flight  begins!  Do  you  think  I 
fail  to  understand  who  my  architect  is?  She 
suits  me  very  well,  for  I  have  not  often  been 
able  to  employ  genius  j  I  have  decided  to  retain 
her." 

At  this  I  turned  severe,  although  inwardly 
aflame,  and  began  to  delineate  Irving's  especial 
excellencies  in  his  profession.  Mr.  Kimball  lis- 
tened with  great  courtesy  and  this  line  of  con- 
versation lasted  until  we  reached  home.  Just 
as  he  drew  up  before  the  house  he  said, 

"  Mr.  Knox  has  agreed  to  work  out  the  four 
cartoons  for  the  tapestries,  those  Greek  sub- 
jects, at  once.  Hook  will  send  them  over  to 
France  to  the  tapestry  works  as  soon  as  they 
are  completed.  We  have  cabled  the  order  al- 
ready." 

"  You  mean  for  the  panels — not  the  bor- 
ders?" 

"Yes,  they  will  put  their  people  right  to 


CHAP.  XII  [ 

work  on  the  borders  from  their  own  designs, 
and  we  hope  to  get  the  panels  and  all  complete 
in  the  spring.  It  will  be  necessary  for  you  to 
go  over  then  with  Mr.  Lloyd  and  me  and  see 
about  alterations  and  all  that." 

"  For — me  f  "  He  was  helping  me  out  of  the 
cart  at  the  moment  and  my  hand  was  in  his  as 
I  spoke. 

"Certainly.  Please  tell  Mr.  Lloyd  that  I  wish 
he  would,  if  possible,  plan  his  work  so  as  to  get 
off  in  March  for  six  or  eight  weeks.  I  shall 
need  my  architect  over  there,  you  can  see  for 
yourself — both  of  him !  Good  morning." 

I  flew  up-stairs  without  pausing  to  take 
breath  and  listened  a  moment  at  Irving's  door. 
To  my  joy  the  nurse  was  not  there  and  he  was 
lying  on  the  sofa,  partly  dressed  and  looking 
quite  himself. 

I  ran  and  knelt  at  his  side,  brought  out  his 
letter  and  check  and  placed  them  in  his  hand, 
watched  while  his  eyes  flashed  across  both,  and 
then  poured  out  all  the  praise  which  Boss  Kim- 
ball  had  given  the  work  save  that  peculiarly  my 


[  123  ]  CHAP.  XII 

own — the  trip  to  Paris  in  prospect  and  all  my 
joy  and  exultation. 

Irving  sat  up  with  sudden  vigor,  and  re- 
sponded with  undisguised  relief  and  gratifica- 
tion. For  a  moment  we  talked  rapidly,  eagerly, 
with  vivid  elation.  Then  suddenly  his  color 
changed  to  a  bluish  pallor,  and  he  dropped  back 
on  his  pillows  gasping  for  breath. 

I  called  the  nurse  and  we  used  all  the  means 
at  hand,  but  in  spite  of  all  he  grew  rigid,  his 
lips  and  finger-tips  turned  purple  and  his  eyes 
set.  The  nurse  and  I  were  both  outwardly  com- 
posed, but  I  could  see  that  she  was  frightened 
and  at  the  end  of  her  resources. 

"  It  is  his  heart,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice  to 
me  aside.  I  darted  to  the  telephone  in  the  hall, 
noting  that  it  was  nearly  one  o'clock — lunch 
hour.  I  might  hope  then  to  catch  Dr.  Kirke  at 
home.  He  responded  himself,  and  in  five  min- 
utes, I  am  sure  it  was  no  more,  he  entered  the 
room  where  we  were  still  working  over  Irving 
in  silent  desperation. 

I  am  sure  I  had  never  in  my  life  been  so  glad 


CHAP.  XII  [  124  ] 

to  see  a  human  being.  This  man's  presence 
meant  more  than  comfort  or  hope — it  meant 
life.  Nobody  spoke,  but  a  few  things  were  in- 
stantly done  with  a  precision  and  a  power  which 
seemed  to  make  all  that  had  been  done  before 
clumsy  and  futile.  In  two  minutes  Irving' s  eye- 
lids fluttered  and  the  terrible  hue  of  his  lips 
showed  a  change.  He  moved  his  head,  and  evi- 
dently perceived  the  Doctor  as  he  bent  over  him. 
In  a  paroxysm  of  tenderness  I  drew  one  poor, 
limp  hand  into  my  bosom  and  covered  it  with 
kisses  and  with  tears. 

After  that  everything  went  forward  pros- 
perously. In  fifteen  minutes  the  Doctor  came 
down-stairs,  where  I  was  waiting  for  him.  I 
was  no  longer  careless  as  to  his  coming  and 
going.  His  dictum  was  more  vital  to  me  than 
any  other  earthly  thing.  He  strode  through 
my  little  hall  and  had  reached  the  door  before  I 
could  intercept  him.  He  stopped,  the  knob  in 
his  hand,  glanced  at  me  and  dropped  his  head 
slightly  forward — an  attitude  common  to  him. 

"  Tell  me,  Dr.  Kirke,"  I  said  urgently,  my 


[  135  ]  CHAP.  XII 

voice  trembling,  "is  it  dangerous?     Is  it  his 
heart?    Oh,  what  is  it?  " 

He  looked  at  me  as  if  slightly  surprised. 

"  You  have  no  occasion  to  be  alarmed,"  he 
said  briefly ;  "  syncope  is  very  common  at  the 
turn  of  fever.  Perfect  quiet  is  all  that  is  nec- 
essary. Still — I  wish  your  husband  had  a 
stronger  heart." 

Then  he  bowed  and  the  house  door  closed 
upon  him. 

While  waiting  in  the  library  I  had  deliberate- 
ly made  up  my  mind  to  explain  to  Dr.  Kirke  in 
a  few  telling  words  the  circumstances  which  had 
led  to  my  drive  with  Boss  Kimball  in  the  morn- 
ing, since  I  felt  that  it  needed  explanation  and 
I  was  confident  that  he  had  observed  it.  At  this 
moment  nothing  could  have  seemed  more  irrele- 
vant, more  superfluous  by  reason  of  his  abso- 
lute lack  of  interest  in  me,  my  actions  or  my  pur- 
poses. 

It  was  but  a  week  after  this  that  Irving  was 
able  to  return  to  his  office,  and  a  winter  of  ab- 
sorbing activity,  rich  in  promise,  opened  be- 
fore us. 


XIII 

THE  following  March  we  were  in  Paris,  Ir- 
ving and  I,  in  company  with  Koss  Kimball,  who 
had  with  him  besides  his  private  secretary,  a 
general  utility  man  named  Lit,  a  French  Swiss 
who  spoke  three  languages  perfectly.  He  acted 
as  courier,  interpreter  and  confidential  valet. 
In  Paris,  Mr.  Owen,  the  Rector  of  St.  Christo- 
pher's, had  joined  our  party  with  his  wife. 
They  had  been  abroad  for  some  months,  travel- 
ing in  the  East  as  well  as  Europe,  chiefly  en- 
gaged in  collecting  rugs,  pictures,  bronzes  and 
curios  of  many  kinds  for  Mr.  Kimball. 

We  had  crossed  on  a  French  steamer,  on 
which  Irving  and  I  received  our  first  initiation 
into  the  life  and  habits  of  a  "  railroad  king." 
This  was  the  favorite  newspaper  epithet  for 
Ross  Kimball. 

,We    enjoyed    the    attendance    and    luxury 


[  127  ]  CHAP.  XIII 

which  cost  us  nothing  with  almost  childish  rel- 
ish, and  again  in  Paris  we  found  it  not  at  all  a 
slow  or  difficult  process  to  become  inured  to 
magnificence.  Mr.  Kimball  rented  a  very  beau- 
tiful furnished  villa  near  the  Pare  Monceau 
with  full  quota  of  servants  and  well-filled  sta- 
bles. The  perfection  of  service,  the  unstinted 
but  refined  luxury,  the  exquisite  taste  of  all  the 
material  details  of  living  which  surrounded  us 
there,  were  to  me  a  revelation,  and  our  home  life 
as  I  looked  back  upon  it  with  its  homely  econo- 
mies and  cares  seemed  crude  and,  bourgeois  to 
a  degree,  as  it  was  intended  it  should.  That  is, 
there  were  times  when  this  was  the  case,  and 
other  times  when  I  felt  as  if  enervated  by  such 
boundless  sense  gratification,  smothered  by  the 
lavishness  of  delight,  and  I  would  long  for  a 
tonic  March  blast  of  Boston  weather,  and  a 
chance  to  tie  an  apron  round  my  waist  and  go 
into  my  own  little  kitchen  to  "  stir  up  a  cake  for 
supper." 

But  instead  of  such  a  chance  I  had  a  box  at 
the  Opera  House  every  night,  horses  at  my  dis- 


CHAP.  XIII  [  128  ] 

posal  at  every  hour,  art  and  music  in  glorious 
abundance  and  a  chance  to  shop  to  my  heart's 
content. 

Mr.  Kimball  having  taken  care  that  no  wish 
of  the  ladies  of  his  party  should  be  left  ungrati- 
fied,  was  seldom  in  our  company  through  the 
day.  Alone  I  never  saw  him.  We  met  him  at 
dinner,  a  ceremonious  performance  superbly 
rendered,  and  afterward  he  occasionally  accom- 
panied us  to  the  opera.  But  it  was  distinctly 
evident  that  he  had  no  mind  to  exact  personal 
response  or  attention  from  any  of  us  as  compen- 
sation for  his  hospitality.  He  had  many  inter- 
views and  engagements  with  titled  and  official 
personages  whom  we  met  rarely  or  not  at  all. 
The  provision  for.  his  house  decoration,  which 
now  seemed  to  have  sunk  into  a  concern  of 
minor  importance,  he  left  indeed  largely  to  Mr. 
Owen  and  Irving.  He  was  always  gracious,  un- 
assuming, gratified  at  our  enjoyment  of  the 
pleasures  he  put  in  our  way,  and  yet  at  this  time 
I  found  him  more  of  the  grand  seigneur  than 
ever  before.  He  was  less  approachable  than  in 


[  129  ]  CHAP.  XIII 

the  easy,  democratic  conditions  in  which  I  had 
hitherto  known  him,  more  exclusive,  more  im- 
posing, more  imperative.  I  have  seen  since  how 
infallibly  this  change  added  to  his  charm  and  to 
his  power  over  my  imagination.  His  person 
and  presence  and  the  taste  which  he  displayed 
in  his  whole  establishment  were  greatly  ad- 
mired in  Paris,  where  he  was  called  "  Le  milord 
Americain." 

The  last  week  in  March  was  as  warm  as  June 
in  Paris  and  the  charming  sunken  garden  of  our 
villa  was  already  gay  with  spring  flowers  scat- 
tered in  a  profusion  like  Botticelli's  Spring 
through  the  fresh  and  fragrant  grass. 

Mrs.  Owen  and  I  had  remained  in  that  Tues- 
day morning  to  receive  the  American  mail, 
which  was  always  heavy  on  that  day,  and  now 
it  had  come  and  we  had  gone  out  on  the  terrace 
where  deep  wicker  easy-chairs  were  placed. 
We  were  engrossed  in  our  letters  when  Mr. 
Kimball  himself  came  out  from  the  house  and 
took  a  chair  beside  the  low  table  on  whose 
gleaming  damask  cloth  a  servant  had  just 

9 


CHAP.  XIII  [  ISO  ] 

placed  iced  wine  and  browned  almond  wafers. 
We  looked  up  and  greeted  him,  unf  eignedly  sur- 
prised to  see  him  at  this  hour.  He  had  brought 
flowers  to  us  both.  Mine  were  hyacinths,  which 
he  had  told  me  always  stood  for  me  in  his  fancy. 
Their  fragrance  had  been,  in  my  own  house,  the 
first  token  and  prophecy  to  him  of  my  personal- 
ity. Mrs.  Owen  poured  a  glass  of  wine  for  him 
and  as  he  sipped  it  slowly  he  said  to  her, 

"  That  matter  of  Carlier — you  know?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  Mr.  Kimball,"  she  responded 
with  peculiar  empressement  and  significance,  I 
thought. 

"  I  think  some  one  from  there  will  call  upon 
you  this  morning  perhaps.  Would  you  be  at 
liberty?  If  not,  they  can  come  at  another  time." 

"Indeed  I  am  at  liberty,"  she  replied  with 
an  enthusiastic  emphasis  which  indicated  that 
the  subject  of  their  conversation  aroused  the 
liveliest  interest. 

Feeling  myself  outside  the  conversation  en- 
tirely, knowing  only  that  Carlier  was  the  most 
fashionable  of  Paris  modistes,  I  returned  to  my 


[  131  ]  CHAP.  XIII 

letters  and  read  on  while  they  talked  in  some- 
what lower  voices.  It  was  not  long  before  a 
servant  approached  with  a  card  on  a  tray  for 
Mrs.  Owen.  She  looked  at  it,  and,  throwing  an 
expressive  glance  at  Mr.  Kimball,  rose,  swept 
him  a  courtesy  with  some  grace  of  arch  humility 
and  went  into  the  house.  I  watched  her  as  she 
went,  noting  that  the  very  way  she  carried  her- 
self indicated  that  something  of  peculiarly 
pleasing  importance  was  on  hand.  I  let  my  let- 
ters fall  into  my  lap  and  held  myself  in  my  chair 
in  an  attitude  of  courteous  but  slightly  formal 
attention,  awaiting  whatever  my  host  might 
have  to  say  to  me.  As  I  glanced  up  I  found  him 
watching  me  with  the  old  ironical  musing  smile. 
It  was  long  since  I  had  seen  it. 

"  Well,"  he  said  abruptly,  "  I  suppose  you 
will  want  a  gown  too." 

"  I  do  not  understand,  Mr.  Kimball,"  I  re- 
plied with  a  shade  of  coldness. 

"  Oh  then  Mrs.  Owen  has  not  told  you  of  my 
little  scheme?" 

I  shook  my  head. 


CHAP.  XIII  [  133  ] 

"  It  is  simply  that  I  have  a  fancy  for  having 
my  house-warming  next  October  signalized  by 
two  Carlier  gowns.  These  to  be  kindly  worn  as 
a  favor  to  me  by  the  ladies  who  have  contributed 
so  much  of  their  consideration  and  their  taste  to 
my  home  in  many  other  ways." 

I  bit  my  lip,  half  in  doubt  whether  I  was 
elated  or  embarrassed. 

"  My  rector's  wife,"  Eoss  Kimball  went  on 
quietly,  "  has  been  so  good  as  to  allow  me  the 
pleasure  of  making  her  this  little  gift,  which  is 
abominably  selfish,  I  admit,  in  its  ulterior  aim, 
and  I  trust  my  architect — my  architect's  wife — 
will  be  equally  indulgent  of  my  whim." 

I  leaned  back  in  my  chair  with  a  luxurious 
little  sigh. 

"What  can  one  say?"  I  murmured  under 
my  breath. 

"  Simply  that  you  will  make  use  of  the  carte- 
blanche  to  your  credit  chez  Carlier  and  have 
yourself  dressed  for  once  to  please  me." 

He  looked  at  me  as  he  said  these  words  with 
a  curiously  cold  authority  which  yet  seemed  to 


[  133  ]  CHAP.  XIII 

cover  a  suddenly  suppressed  fire  of  passion.  A 
tremor  ran  through  my  body  under  his  look  and 
tone. 

"  Do  you  wish  me  also  to  see  this  person 
then,  who  is  calling  upon  Mrs.  Owen?  "  I  asked 
half  timidly. 

"  To-morrow  will  do  as  well,"  was  the  care- 
less answer.  "  You  might  stay  where  you  are 
now.  It  is  the  first  time  I  have  seen  you  since 
we  left  the  steamer,  and  I  only  spoke  to  you 
three  or  four  times,  if  I  remember,  on  shipboard. 
Let's  go  back  to  Boston." 

I  laughed  at  his  absurdity  of  overstatement, 
but  he  knew  that  I  did  not  miss  its  significance. 
Something  in  his  tone  made  me  vaguely  uneasy, 
but  resistance  or  resentment  had  been  fore- 
stalled by  his  long  aloofness  and  apparent  in- 
difference. We  talked  on  until  interrupted  by 
Mrs.  Owen's  return. 

A  few  days  afterward  I  visited  the  Carlier 
establishment  by  appointment.  Here,  as  al- 
ways in  Paris,  I  flatly  refused  to  speak  French, 
which  I  understood  perfectly  but  used  atro- 


CHAP.  XIII  [  134  ] 

ciously,  and  an  interpreter  was  called  into  requi- 
sition. I  was  surprised  to  find  that  some  un- 
derstanding regarding  my  projected  gown  had 
already  been  reached.  Monsieur,  that  very  very 
superb  Americain,  had  given  certain  orders. 
He  wished  it  of  a  fineness,  oh  bien  extraordi- 
naire, but  simple,  oh  yes,  yes,  yes,  quite  of  the 
jeune  fille  order  tout  a  fait  different  from  that 
robe-of-the-matron  of  Madame  the  friend  of 
Mademoiselle. 

I  listened  to  the  patter,  not  deigning  to  ex- 
plain that  I  was  also  a  matron — what  odds  did 
it  make?  I  confessed  myself  surprised  that  di- 
rections had  already  been  given  without  my 
knowledge,  but  was  glad  the  gown  was  to  be  ex- 
tremely simple.  This  being  repeated  to  the 
modiste  she  gave  the  Frenchwoman's  lift  of 
brow  and  shoulder.  The  directions  were  noth- 
ing further  than  that  Mademoiselle  was  to  be 
perfectly  suited.  How  would  a  very  modest 
garniture  of  eglantine  on  the  hem  and  corsage 
answer?  So  chaste,  so  elegant,  above  all  so 
simple !  While  I  expressed  acquiescence  through 


[  135  ]  CHAP.  XIII 

the  interpreter  I  heard  the  words  spoken  rap- 
idly and  low  in  French  behind  me, 

"  La  favorite  .  .  .  de  cet  Milord  Ameri- 
cain,  qui  etait  ici." 

I  felt  my  color  change  but  I  did  not  turn  my 
head.  Two  demure,  respectful  French  girls  in 
black  silk  gowns  came  forward.  One  of  them 
carried  a  slip  of  white  silk  for  me  to  try  on.  It 
would  be  fitted  and  form  the  foundation  of  the 
gown,  which  itself  would  not  require  fitting.  It 
could  not  be  completed  under  a  month.  Mon- 
sieur had  said  c'etait  'egal.  It  would  be  sent 
quite  safely  and  well  packed  in  une  tres  grande 
boite  to  Boston  direct,  as  would  also  the  robe 
of  Madame  Owen. 

All  this  explanation  was  given  as  I  removed 
my  dress.  The  slip  was  then  put  on  and  skil- 
fully fastened,  a  running  fire  of  low-voiced  ex- 
clamation in  French  the  while.  What  superb 
lines !  A  torso  for  a  sculptor,  n'est  ce  pas  ?  It 
was  not  often  one  had  the  joy  to  work  on  such  a 
figure.  Then  the  corsage  was  swiftly  cut  in  a 
curve  around  the  shoulder  line  with  scissors  like 


CHAP.  XIII  [  136  ] 

a  lancet  for  sharpness.  I  stood  before  a  cheval- 
glass.  As  the  severed  strip  of  silk  rippled  down 
to  the  carpet  I  exclaimed  with  a  frown  that  Ma- 
dame had  made  the  neck  quite  too  low.  I  had 
never  worn  a  gown  like  that.  The  modiste  noted 
my  frown  and  with  lifted  head  listened  to  the 
interpreter.  She  smiled  indulgently  and  shook 
her  head.  I  heard  her  nrarnmr  to  her  assistant 
in  French,  rapidly,  under  breath, 

"  With  a  bust  divine  which  it  were  a  crime 
to  conceal,  and  yet  a  little  prude ! " 

To  the  interpreter  she  said  with  dignity  that 
the  dress  would  be  made  to  suit  Mademoiselle 
in  every  particular.  I  knew  perfectly  that  in 
this  particular  it  would  be  made  to  suit  Madame 
Carlier  and  the  prevailing  mode,  and  came 
away  helpless  and  with  some  inner  excitement. 

The  next  day — our  sojourn  in  Paris  was 
drawing  to  a  close — we  all  went  to  visit  the 
tapestry  manufactory  and  see  the  panels  and 
borders  which  had  been  ordered  there  for  the 
music-room  in  the  west  wing  of  Mr.  Kimball's 
new  residence. 


[  137  ]  CHAP.  XIII 

On  our  arrival  at  the  factory  we  were  re- 
ceived with  marked  and  deferential  courtesy 
and  put  in  charge  of  a  very  intelligent  and  gen- 
tlemanly Frenchman.  He  first  conducted  us 
through  a  number  of  workrooms  where  we  saw 
most  admirable  products  of  the  low-warp  looms, 
and  several  pieces  for  our  own  order  still  in 
process  of  making.  At  length  we  entered  a 
large,  empty  apartment  and  an  attendant  was 
found  in  waiting,  with  several  completed 
squares  of  tapestry  on  the  table  before  him 
which  he  proceeded  to  throw  over  frames  for 
us  to  view. 

Here  at  last  I  was  able  to  catch  a  foreshad- 
owing of  the  practical  embodiment  of  this  part 
of  my  own  initial  conception.  That  conception 
had,  to  be  sure,  been  passed  through  the  cruci- 
bles of  stronger  and  more  skilful  minds,  refined, 
balanced,  elaborated,  strengthened — and  yet  the 
origin,  the  root  of  it  all,  was  in  my  own  rapt  and 
eager  thought.  It  was  naturally  with  breath- 
less interest  that  I  followed  the  exhibition  of 
the  panel  sequences  for  the  music-room,  marvels 


CHAP.  XIII  [  138  ] 

of  line  and  color,  clear,  light  and  limpid,  or 
steeped  in  lustrous  gold. 

From  a  chest  behind  him,  the  attendant,  near 
whom  Mr.  Kimball  and  I  happened  at  the  mo- 
ment to  be  standing,  presently  drew  into  sight 
a  cluster  of  squares,  not  less  than  six  feet  in 
size,  lightly  tacked  together  and  wholly  differ- 
ent from  those  thus  far  shown. 

"  Ici  est  quelque  chose  tres  elegant,"  he  be- 
gan with  a  dramatic  smile  and  gesture  which 
called  our  attention  to  the  series.  "  Monsieur 
has  not  ordered  these,  but  purchased  them  out- 
right. They  were  designed  for  royalty."  He 
threw  the  upper  panel  open,  face  outward.  I 
caught  a  glimpse  of  a  marvel  of  shining  silken 
whiteness,  shot  here  and  there  with  rose,  when, 
instantly,  before  I  knew  what  I  saw,  the  whole 
set  was  caught  from  the  man's  hand,  folded  to- 
gether and  dashed  down  upon  the  table. 

I  looked  around.  The  action,  almost  violent 
in  its  imperative  swiftness,  came  from  Ross 
Kimball,  and  with  it  the  words  in  a  quick,  curt 
undertone,  in  imperfect  French, 


[  139  ]  CHAP.  XIII 

"What  has  that  to  do  here?  Obey  orders, 
if  you  please." 

His  face  was  slightly  flushed  and  he  gnawed 
his  under  lip  for  a  minute  ominously.  Plainly 
he  was  furiously  angry.  The  Frenchman  began 
to  make  profuse  and  incoherent  apologies  which 
Mr.  Kimball  cut  short  by  a  peremptory  word, 
asking  him  to  finish  the  business  for  which  we 
were  there.  Fairly  trembling  with  terror,  the 
fellow  thrust  the  condemned  tapestry  hastily 
out  of  sight  into  the  chest,  and  proceeded  with 
the  display  of  those  which  had  gone  before,  his 
fluency  and  confidence  markedly  checked. 

Half  an  hour  later  we  came  out  of  the  fac- 
tory, Irving  and  I  together,  talking  eagerly  of 
the  tapestries  and  the  delight  of  seeing  such 
magnificent  fulfilment  of  our  own  conceptions. 
I  asked  him  if  he  had  observed  Mr.  Kimball's 
strange  interruption,  his  evident  irritation. 
Yes,  he  too  had  been  puzzled  and  surprised. 

"  The  panels  seem  to  have  been  for  the  house 
also.  Do  you  not  think  so  1 "  I  asked. 

"  Why,  evidently.    At  least  I  suppose  so." 


CHAP.  XIII  [  14O  ] 

"Did  you  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  inner 
side?" 

"  No,  not  at  all ;  I  was  looking  at  our  own 
things  until  I  heard  Mr.  Kimball  speak  in  that 
unusual  tone." 

"  Irving,  they  were  the  loveliest  things  I 
ever  saw — that  is,  it  seemed  so  to  me  in  that  one 
flash.  White  like  a  pearl  in  the  sun — the  ground 
you  see,  and  this  -shower  of  soft  pink  blossoms ! 
I  was  fairly  aching  to  see  more  of  them.  Where 
do  you  suppose  he  is  going  to  use  them?  Prob- 
ably in  Mrs.  KimbalPs  apartments." 

"  I  am  sure  I  have  no  idea,"  my  husband  re- 
plied indifferently ;  "  Mr.  Kimball  doesn't  tell 
me  all  he  means  to  do." 

The  following  day,  the  first  of  April,  Mr. 
Kimball  left  Paris  for  Mentone,  taking  Lit  and 
the  secretary  with  him  and  we  saw  him  no  more. 
He  was  to  sail  a  few  days  later  from  Genoa. 
We  remained  in  the  Paris  villa  a  little  longer 
with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Owen. 


xrv 

IKVING  and  I  reached  London,  I  remember,  on 
May  Day.  The  grim  old  walls  were  dashed  with 
patches  of  color  by  the  marvelous  opulence  of 
blossoms  in  all  the  parks  and  squares.  The 
gold  lace  of  the  laburnum  fretted  the  blue  sky 
and  the  pink-tipped  daisies  dotted  the  green 
grass,  and  gorgeous  toilets  gleamed  between  the 
dark  tree  boles  as  the  carriages  rolled  through 
the  gardens.  It  was  May  in  Mayfair. 

We  went  to  the  gray  Guildhall  for  a  loan  ex- 
hibition of  paintings  the  second  day.  Leaving 
Irving  after  a  time  to  undisturbed  contempla- 
tion of  Whistler's  portrait  of  Carlyle,  which 
chanced  to  be  among  the  paintings  and  which 
hung  in  the  large  gallery,  I  moved  on  alone  to 
the  smaller  room.  I  had  left  the  catalogue  in 
Irving's  hand  and  had  no  particular  objective, 


CHAP.  XIV  [  143  ] 

but  my  eyes  were  speedily  drawn  to  a  canvas 
which  magnetized  me  even  from  the  distance  by 
its  sumptuous  color  and  the  startling  splendor 
of  its  sole  figure.  Crossing  quickly  I  saw  before 
me  the  first  original  Eossetti  my  eyes  had  ever 
rested  upon.  Against  a  background  consisting 
in  part  of  a  dense  mass  of  roses,  was  seated  a 
fair,  large-limbed  woman  with  pale  golden  hair, 
whose  filaments  were  slowly  drawn  out  and  held 
upward  by  a  comb  in  her  right  hand ;  the  brow 
and  eyes  clear,  haughty;  the  mouth  sensuous, 
.  lovely  yet  cruel,  the  naked  throat  and  shoulders 
magnificent,  the  pose  voluptuous.  The  mystical, 
compelling  enchantment  of  the  thing  the  im- 
pression of  genius  displayed  in  a  surpassing  de- 
gree, almost  took  my  breath,  but  left  me  troub- 
led and  perplexed.  It  was  a  study  of  "  passion 
without  love,  and  languor  without  satiety!  en- 
ergy without  heart ;  beauty  without  tenderness." 
What  did  it  signify !  Who  was  this  woman  with 
her  irresistible  sinister  witchery?  A  moment 
later  I  looked  down  at  an  inscription  on  the 
frame  and  read  the  name  "Lilith"  and  below 


[  143  ]  CHAP.  XIV 

the  famous,  though  to  me  then  unfamiliar,  son- 
net, 

"  And  still  she  sits,  young  while  the  earth  is  old, 
And,  subtly  of  herself  contemplative, 
Draws  men  to  watch  the  bright  web  she  can  weave, 
Till  heart  and  body  and  life  are  in  its  hold. 

The  rose  and  poppy  are  her  flowers  ;  for  where 

Is  he  not  found,  O  Lilith,  whom  shed  scent 
And  soft-shed  kisses  and  soft  sleep  shall  snare  ?  ' ' 

Slowly  as  I  read  and  looked  there  struggled 
back  to  my  recollection  an  hour  in  my  girlhood 
when  all  unconsciously  I  had  assumed  a  pos- 
ture, an  action,  it  might  even  have  chanced,  an 
expression,  in  some  sort  like  that  in  the  picture 
before  me.  For  an  instant  I  was  transported  to 
that  July  morning  when  my  lover  sat  beside  me 
with  adoring  eyes  and  I  felt  the  warm  sun  filter 
through  my  hair. 

"Lilith!" 

That  was  the  word  once  spoken  by  Dr. 
Kirke  which  had  roused  Irving  and  me  from 
our  love  langour,  our  dreamy  dalliance.  How 
often  I  had  sought  to  make  articulate  the  sound 


CHAP.  XIV  [  144  ] 

he  had  uttered.  At  last  I  knew  what  was  in  his 
thought,  for  I  was  told  beyond  doubt  or  ques- 
tion, by  some  mysterious  inner  witness,  that 
I  had  here  met  myself.  Vague  hints  of  the 
old  Doppleganger  legend  strayed  through  my 
thought,  and  a  chill  ran  over  me.  To  meet  one's 
self,  did  not  that  mean  death? 

Only  for  an  instant  did  the  strange  delusion 
hold  -me.  Promptly  I  rejected  it.  How  could  I 
fancy  in  myself  the  slightest  similitude  to  the 
superb  beauty,  the  imperial  sensuousness  of 
this  creature,  or  to  her  cruel,  unfathomable 
charm?  I,  the  commonplace,  home-bred  Amer- 
ican girl,  Irving's  wife,  dressed  now  in  my  mo- 
dish Paris  tailor-gown  and  walking-hat,  neither 
beautiful,  brilliant,  nor,  at  least  I  hoped,  wicked. 
What  an  idiotic,  distorted  trick  of  imagination ! 
Dr.  Kirke  was  responsible  for  it  and  it  alto- 
gether meant  nothing  but  that  when  he  saw  me 
first  I  was  drying  my  hair  and  happened  to  have 
a  comb  and  a  glass  in  my  hand  a  la  mermaiden. 
I  turned  and  left  the  picture  impatiently,  but  it 
drew  me  back  again  despite  my  will.  An  irre- 


[  145  ]  CHAP.  XIV 

sistible  pang  warned  me  that,  all  the  outward 
trappings  to  the  contrary,  I  had  met  in  this  ter- 
ribly beautiful  conception  one  side  of  my  own 
nature  powerfully  symbolized.  I  experienced  a 
species  of  angry  terror  of  the  man  who  had  di- 
vined something  of  the  coldly  amorous  egotist 
in  me  at  a  glance.  I  went  back  into  the  large 
room,  missing  Irving  on  the  way,  and  sat  down 
before  the  Whistler  to  wait  for  him,  a  sudden 
aching  weariness  coming  over  me.  He  ap- 
peared after  long  waiting  and  asked  if  I  were 
ready  to  go  home.  I  rose,  and  as  we  moved  tow- 
ard the  door,  he  paused,  looking  over  his  shoul- 
der into  the  inner  room. 

"  Did  you  see  the  Rossetti?  "  he  asked.  I 
nodded. 

"  Marvelous  painting  that,  but  rather  mon- 
strous, somehow.  That  man  had  a  devil  of  an 
imagination.  It  is  the  oddest  thing,  though, 
Sidney,  the  Lady  Lilith  actually  looks  like  you." 

"  Pleasing  thought,"  I  murmured  and  we 
came  out  into  the  old  court  of  the  Guildhall. 

The  next  day  we  went  out  to  Warwick.    In 
10 


CHAP.  XIV  [  146  ] 

the  strangers'  book  at  the  Castle  Irving  found 
inscribed  but  a  week  earlier  the  names  of  Dr. 
Kirke  and  his  sister.  He  had  not  known  of  their 
coming  abroad  this  summer ;  he  wished  we  might 
have  the  luck  to  meet  them.  This,  however,  was 
unlikely.  At  Leamington  we  parted,  Irving  to 
make  a  tour  of  a  number  of  the  great  English 
houses  in  Mr.  KimbalPs  interests,  I  to  visit  my 
mother's  sister  in  Herefordshire.  Irving  would 
sail  in  two  weeks  from  Glasgow;  I  was  to  re- 
main as  long  as  I  cared  to  do  so. 

I  enjoyed  my  quiet  summer  in  my  aunt's 
beautiful  country  house  in  spite  of  two  persist- 
ent drawbacks.  The  rain  fell  almost  contin- 
ually and  for  the  first  time  in  my  life  almost  I 
was  physically  wretched,  each  day  bringing  me 
some  small  wearisome  unexplained  suffering. 
I  refused  the  services  of  a  physician  and 
dragged  around,  languid,  pallid  and  yet  not 
really  ill.  Early  in  August  I  suddenly  found  that 
I  was  very  tired  of  tea  and  tarts  and  all  things 
English  and  decided  to  return  to  America  on 
the  first  Cunard  steamer  on  which  I  could  find 


[  147  ]  CHAP.  XIV 

accommodation.  This  proved  to  be  the  Lu- 
cania,  sailing  the  twenty-seventh,  and  I  was  de- 
clared fortunate  in  being  able  to  secure  a,  small 
inside  stateroom  at  a  moderate  price.  I  wrote 
Irving  at  once  of  my  sailing  date  and  made 
ready  to  depart.  My  aunt  accompanied  me  to 
Liverpool,  where  we  spent  the  night  of  the 
twenty-sixth  at  a  hotel,  parting  there  in  the 
morning,  as  it  was  inconvenient  for  her  to  go  to 
the  steamer  with  me.  In  our  last  hour  together 
my  aunt  spoke  with  unwonted  tenderness  of  my 
mother. 

"  I  wish  she  could  have  lived  to  see  you  as 
1  the  woman  of  thirty,'  Sidney.  I  think  she 
never  quite  foresaw  how  fine  a  woman  you 
would  be  when  you  fully  matured.  You  have  a 
noble  physique,  your  lines  are  positively  statu- 
esque, and  so  is  the  pose  of  your  head.  You 
dress  as  only  the  American  woman  who  goes  to 
Paris  ever  can.  Every  one  who  has  met  you 
speaks  to  me  of  an  irresistible  fascination  in 
your  speech  and  manner.  Men  continually  turn 
to  look  at  you  as  you  pass  them  on  the  street. 


CHAP.  XIV  [  148  ] 

Certainly  you  have  the  indescribable  something, 
and  altogether  you  are  a  success,  but  I  do  not 
like  to  see  you  look  so  pale.  I  fancy,  however, 
the  voyage  will  bring  back  your  color  and  appe- 
tite." 

Soon  after  this  she  kissed  me  good-by, 
promising  to  come  to  America  in  a  year  or  two 
for  a  long  visit. 

As  I  stepped  on  board  the  Lucania  just  be- 
fore sailing  time,  my  very  correct  leather  bag 
in  my  hand,  I  was  met  by  the  usual  rush  of 
superattentive  porters  and  cabin-boys,  to  one  of 
whom  I  gave  my  bag  and  mentioned  the  number 
of  my  stateroom.  We  passed  down  the  dark 
close  corridor  into  the  very  depths  of  the  ship, 
as  it  seemed  to  me,  and  when  we  came  to  the 
small,  stuffy,  artificially  lighted  stateroom  which 
bore  my  number,  81,  I  was  much  surprised  to 
find  the  floor  covered  with  hold-alls  and  can- 
vas-wrapped bundles  of  the  umistakable  Eng- 
lish variety. 

Standing  in  the  midst  of  these,  adjusting  a 
very  obvious  "  fringe  "  before  the  mirror,  I  saw 


[  149  ]  CHAP.  XIV 

a  very  dowdy  and  very  dressy  Englishwoman 
with  high  cheek-bones  and  false  complexion.  I 
stopped  on  the  threshold,  verified  the  number  of 
the  room,  and  then,  speaking  to  the  cabin-boy, 
but  looking  at  the  intruder,  said  with  uncon- 
cealed displeasure  that  I  had  reserved  the  whole 
of  this  stateroom  for  myself.  They  had  no  right 
to  put  another  lady  in  it.  There  must  be  a  mis- 
take. Quite  unmoved  the  Englishwoman  fan- 
cied that  this  might  be  true,  but  the  mistake  was 
certainly  not  on  her  part.  The  purser  himself 
had  given  her  her  number.  Decidedly  nettled  I 
told  the  boy  to  call  the  purser  and  produced  my 
letter  from  the  Cunard  office  assigning  the 
whole  of  stateroom  81  to  my  exclusive  use. 

"  Would  you  come  this  way,  Miss  f  "  the  boy 
asked  pleadingly,  moving  a  few  steps  down  the 
corridor.  "  The  purser  is  that  busy  just  at  this 
time,  you  see,  Miss,  that  he  might  keep  you  wait- 
ing." 

I  followed  the  lad  in  some  suppressed  indig- 
nation, and  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs  he  caught 
the  purser  himself  and  gave  him  my  grievance 


CHAP.  XIV  [  150  ] 

in  a  few  words.  The  man's  face  at  once  under- 
went a  marked  change  of  expression  from  that 
of  impatient  annoyance  to  one  of  recognition,  of 
interest  and  even  anxiety.  He  bowed  to  me  with 
profound  civility. 

"  Is  this  Mrs.  Lloyd  then? "  he  half  inquired, 
half  exclaimed.  "  Ah,  now  this  is  a  mistake  al- 
together! I  had  a  lad  set  off  to  watch  for  you 
and  make  sure  there  was  no  trouble,  but  he  has 
missed  you  after  all  and  I  am  very  sorry.  You 
must  pardon  the  trouble ;  it  is  all  confusion  you 
know,  just  now.  It  will  be  all  right  after  this, 
Madam.  You  will  have  no  more  reason  to  com- 
plain. May  I  trouble  you  to  follow  me?  You 
will  find  everything  ready  for  you  and  I  think 
you  will  be  quite  comfortable." 

With  this  and  a  confident  smile  he  sprang 
up  the  stairs,  I  following  him  to  the  next  deck, 
my  perplexity  growing  ever  greater.  Here  he 
led  me  to  a  stateroom,  which  I  saw  at  once  from 
its  location  was  one  of  the  few  cabins  de  luxe, 
and  opening  the  door  ushered  me  into  a  large, 
light  room,  its  three  portholes  set  wide  to  sun 


[  151  ]  CHAP.  XIV 

and  air.  It  contained  a  broad  brass  bed,  arm- 
chairs and  deeply  cushioned  sofa;  a  spacious 
private  bath,  immaculate  in  shining  white  tub 
and  silver  mounting  opened  beyond.  Baskets 
of  roses,  fresh  and  fragrant,  stood  on  desk  and 
dressing-table;  hampers  of  magnificent  fruit 
and  others  of  enticing  shape  marked  "  Buzzard, 
London,"  stood  on  the  floor,  as  also  a  box  of 
books  whose  titles  caught  my  eye  in  the  first 
moment.  They  were  the  newest,  most  desir- 
able, most  discussed  of  the  season.  What  did  it 
all  mean?  Less  than  thirty  seconds  had  shown 
me  these  details. 

"  There  is  certainly  a  very  great  mistake 
here,"  I  said  emphatically,  drawing  back  from 
the  door.  "  This  room  is  intended  for  some 
other  person." 

"  Not  at  all,  Mrs.  Lloyd,  not  at  all,  Madam," 
replied  the  purser,  rubbing  his  hands  cheerfully, 
although  evidently  in  desperate  haste  to  get 
back  to  his  duties.  "  It  is  all  perfectly  right  as 
you  will  find.  Every  package  there,  Madam,  is 
plainly  addressed  to  yourself,  as  you  will  see, 


CHAP.  XIV  [  152  ] 

and  the  letters  you  will  find  on  the  desk  will  no 
doubt  explain  it  all." 

"  But  why  have  I  not  been  informed  of  the 
change  ? "  I  demanded,  more  disturbed  as  I 
grew  less  mystified. 

"  It  was  the  wish  of  the  party  in  Boston, 
Madam,  who  did  the  cabling,  that  you  should 
not  be  told  until  you  reached  the  steamer.  I 
beg  pardon  if  this  is  not  just  to  your  mind,  but 
I  have  to  obey  orders,  and  the  orders  were 
straight.  You  can  see  for  yourself,"  and  pla- 
cing a  cablegram  to  the  Cunard  Company  in  my 
hand,  he  hurried  away  with  profuse  apologies. 

I  went  into  the  stateroom  then,  perforce,  and 
closed  the  door.  The  cablegram  was  signed  by 
Eoss  Kimball's  secretary.  It  ordered  a  cabin 
de  luxe  on  steamer  Lucania  reserved  for  Mrs. 
Lloyd ;  she  not  to  be  informed  of  the  change  un- 
til sailing.  I  turned  then  to  the  desk  and  found 
two  letters;  one  from  Irving,  the  other  from 
Ross  Kimball.  The  former  was  a  hasty,  affec- 
tionate note  expressing  his  gratification  at  Mr. 
KimbalFs  generous  provision  for  my  comfort, 


[  153  ]  CHAP.  XIV 

and  his  joy  at  my  speedy  return ;  the  latter  was 
also  short  but  demanded  longer  reading.  I  was 
to  forgive  the  liberty  he  was  taking  in  changing 
my  quarters  on  the  ship,  but  he  simply  could 
not  have  me  traveling  like  a  grocer's  wife.  He 
would  not  let  them  inform  me  of  what  he  had 
done  in  advance  lest  my  wicked,  wilful  pride 
should  be  up  in  arms  and  make  him  trouble.  I 
must  appreciate  the  fact  that  I  had  rendered 
him  invaluable  service  and  that  I  was  traveling 
in  his  interest  and  behoof.  The  least  he  could 
do  was  to  try  to  make  my  journey  comfortable. 
Besides,  he  was  in  excessively  good  humor  after 
having  been  given  over  to  ill  tempers  ever  since 
he  left  Paris.  He  was  ready  to  offer  me  a  king's 
ransom  since  I  was  really  coming  back  to  lift 
life  out  of  such  hopeless  mediocrity  as  it  had 
now  assumed.  The  house  was  going  on  finely 
and  I  would  be  delighted  when  I  saw  it,  which 
was  not  to  be  until  the  night  of  its  opening  for 
the  reception.  The  date  was  fixed  for  October 
the  second. 

I  rose,  tossed  both  letters  back  upon  the 


CHAP.  XIV  [  154  ] 

desk  and  bent  over  the  great  pink  roses  which 
fairly  covered  it;  they  brought  a  faint  reflec- 
tion of  the  Eossetti  to  my  mind.  I  then  looked 
about  me  and  took  in  deliberately  the  details  of 
luxury  and  refined  sense  gratification  with 
which  Mr.  Kimball  had  surrounded  me.  I  liked 
them  all  and  found  them  very  good,  most  ac- 
ceptable and  welcome  to  the  body  of  me;  to 
the  spirit?  That  was  a  different  thing  and 
I  was  far  from  sure.  The  danger  of  which  I 
had  had  intuition  when  I  met  and  talked  with 
Ross  Kimball  at  the  Club  reception  last  New 
Year's  eve,  seemed  subtly  closing  in  around 
me  in  all  these  finely  drawn  cords  of  care  and 
claiming.  How  could  I  ever  release  myself? 
Where  was  it  all  to  end?  And  yet  the  explana- 
tion of  his  letter  was  simple  and  sufficient.  It 
ought  to  satisfy  even  the  New  England  con- 
science. Sarah  Kirke  herself  could  not  gainsay 
it.  It  was  but  the  business  method  of  the  great 
capitalist  who,  as  he  said  of  himself,  did  not 
employ  first-class  service  for  second-class  pay. 
Yes,  I  would  accept,  with  simple,  unconscious 


[  155  ]  CHAP.  XIV 

gratitude,  and  enjoy  it.  Indeed,  what  else  was 
to  be  done?  Obviously  nothing,  as  the  steamer 
was  full  to  the  extreme  limit  of  her  capacity, 
and  was  even  then  swinging  from  her  moorings. 
To  ask  my  English  friend  in  81  to  change  cabins 
with  me  seemed  the  only  alternative.  This  idea 
I  found  highly  diverting  and  proceeded  forth- 
with to  appropriate  the  room,  a  faint  sense  of 
being  myself  appropriated  being  the  sole  draw- 
back to  my  complete  satisfaction. 

When,  a  few  moments  later,  I  came  out  upon 
the  deck,  the  first  person  I  saw  was  Sarah  Kirke 
in  her  long,  deaconess-fashioned  cloak  and  close 
bonnet,  standing  by  the  rail,  looking  gravely 
back  at  the  receding  shore. 


XV 


THE  Kirkes,  I  found,  had  been  in  Germany 
through  June  and  July.  They  came  now  from 
Scotland,  where  they  had  spent  a  fortnight  in  a 
very  great  house,  that  of  a  famous  scientist, 
consorting  freely  with  persons  of  high  rank  and 
distinction.  They  were,  however,  as  unassum- 
ing as  ever  and  no  handsomer.  About  them 
there  clung,  as  always,  that  flavor  of  a  world 
wholly  different  from  my  own.  Sarah  Kirke  at 
once  opened  the  way  for  me  to  attach  myself 
as  closely  as  I  cared,  to  their  party.  At  her 
request  her  brother  submissively  obtained  a 
seat  for  me  next  to  theirs  at  the  Captain's  table, 
and  our  deck-chairs  were  placed  side  by  side. 

My  occupancy  of  a  cabin  de  luxe  was  never 
commented  upon  by  them  so  far  as  I  remember. 
Their  staterooms  were  on  the  deck  next  below. 

The  Doctor  was  an  accomplished  traveler, 


[  157  ]  CHAP.  XV 

passionately,  albeit  quietly,  fond  of  the  sea,  chiv- 
alrously devoted  to  his  sister,  unapproachable 
to  other  people,  and  to  me  as  indifferent  as  I 
had  always  found  him.  In  my  own  mind,  how- 
ever, I  felt  that  a  change  was  near.  Before  din- 
ner that  first  day  out  I  had  reached  the  point  of 
deliberately  deciding  to  use  the  following  six 
days,  which  seemed  fairly  mine,  to  break  down 
this  man's  coldness.  At  the  end  of  the  voyage 
he  should  stand  in  a  less  unflattering  attitude 
toward  me,  or  we  would  frankly  and  finally  de- 
clare war.  His  indifference  had  become  intol- 
erable to  me.  This  decision  was  the  outcome 
of  several  operating  causes.  First  and  most 
obvious  of  these,  my  pride  was  keenly  stung; 
second,  I  wished  to  force  Dr.  Kirke  mentally  to 
take  back  that  cruel  name  with  which  he  had  once 
characterized  me;  third,  during  Irving's  illness 
I  had  come  to  regard  him  with  reluctant  rever- 
ence and  with  an  unwilling  admiration  in  which 
awe  had  some  place,  and  which  made  him  seem 
more  worth  my  while  to  win  than  any  man  I 
knew  who  remained  unwon ;  and  last,  there  was 


CHAP.  XV  [  158  ] 

a  very  tangible  if  still  uncertain  cause  for  me  to 
wish  to  commend  myself  at  this  time  to  his  care 
and  concern. 

The  question  was,  how  to  go  about  it?  I 
knew  perfectly  well  that  the  usual  weapons  of 
war  would  here  be  without  effect.  The  second 
day  out  I  made  a  blunder  so  bald  that  I  never 
recall  it  without  a  sense  of  impatient  mortifica- 
tion at  my  own  banality.  I  felt  extremely  ill  on 
rising,  the  headache,  faintness  and  other  dis- 
comforts from  which  I  had  suffered  through  the 
summer  in  England  being  increased  by  the  mo- 
tion of  the  ship,  although  not  to  the  point  of  sea- 
sickness. Instead  of  remaining  in  my  room, 
which  was  palpably  the  thing  to  do,  I  rang  for 
the  stewardess,  and  with  her  help  dressed  in  a 
perfectly  plain  black  velvet  walking  suit  which 
I  had  acquired  in  Paris,  and  with  a  small  black 
velvet  toque  pinned  over  my  hair  and  my  face 
as  white  as  a  sheet  of  paper,  I  came  out  on  deck 
and  turned  in  the  direction  of  my  deck-chair. 

Dr.  Kirke,  it  happened,  was  occupying  his. 
Sarah  was  not  in  evidence.  These  facts  I  had 


[  159  ]  CHAP.  XV 

accumulated  through  my  porthole  before  I  de- 
cided to  appear.  The  Doctor  laid  down  his 
book,  a  small  and  shabby  leather-bound  volume 
and  sprang  up  when  he  saw  me  coming  sup- 
ported by  the  stewardess,  a  support  which  I 
found  actually  necessary.  Gravely  and  as  if 
under  orders  he  assisted  me  into  my  chair  and 
folded  my  rug  about  my  limbs  and  feet.  The 
stewardess  slipped  a  pillow  behind  my  head  and 
then  slipped  away  herself  to  send  me  up  some 
brandy  and  ice.  I  closed  my  eyes  until  I  knew 
she  was  gone  and  the  Doctor  had  resumed  his 
chair;  neither  of  us  having  thus  far  spoken  a 
word.  For  a  moment  I  felt  that  his  eyes  were 
upon  my  face,  and  I  longed  for  second  sight  that 
I  might  discern  of  what  elements  his  glance  was 
composed.  Probably  it  was  two  parts  profes- 
sional, one  part  perfunctory,  a  fourth  part 
disappointment  at  the  interruption  I  had  caused. 
Presently  I  opened  my  eyes  and  noted  Dr. 
Kirke's  hand,  which  lay  along  the  arm  of  his 
deck-chair  near  my  side.  I  had  noticed  when 
Irving  was  ill  the  characteristics  of  the  Doctor's 


CHAP.  XV  [  16O  ] 

hands.  They  were  large  rather  than  small,  but 
finely  formed,  the  texture  of  the  skin  as  fine  as 
a  woman's;  they  were  firm,  yet  sensitive,  and 
possessed  in  a  curious  degree  the  expression  of 
trained  and  tested  power.  Looking  at  this 
strong  left  hand  lying  so  close  to  my  own,  which 
stretched  pallid  and  nerveless  on  the  rug  before 
me,  I  felt  a  sick  longing  to  have  that  hand  of 
his  take  one  of  mine  in  its  firm,  invigorating 
clasp.  A  kind  of  wistful  "  Give  me  of  thy 
strength,  oh  Fir-tree  "  appeal  welled  up  within 
me.  I  glanced  up  then  at  the  Doctor.  He  was 
reading,  but  he  immediately  lowered  his  book 
and  said  courteously,  but  in  a  colorless  tone, 

"You  are  not  feeling  quite  yourself,  this 
morning?" 

In  answer  I  volunteered  in  an  undertone, 
"  It  is  not  seasickness,  however.  That  would  be 
simple.  To  tell  the  truth,  Dr.  Kirke,  I  am  very 
far  from  well,  I  fear.  I  have  been  really  ill 
much  of  the  summer." 

As  I  said  this  I  noted  anew  how  thin,  wan 
and  weak  my  hands  looked  as  they  lay  on  the 


[  161  ]  CHAP.  XV 

deep  velvety  pile  of  my  rug.  The  change  in 
them  together  with  my  desperate  weakness  sud- 
denly touched  me  with  a  sense  of  pathos  and 
self  pity  and  I  felt  my  eyes  grow  dim.  I  rather 
hoped  Dr.  Kirke  would  notice  the  fact,  but,  on 
the  contrary,  he  sat  with  one  finger  still  mark- 
ing the  place  in  his  book,  his  eyes  fixed  steadily 
and  musingly  on  a  life-boat  opposite. 

"  Why  that  is  bad,  very  bad,"  he  said  frown- 
ing a  little.  "  A  great  pity,  I  am  sure.  I  believe 
you  are  in  fairly  good  health  at  home  usually, 
are  you  not?  Let  me  send  the  ship's  surgeon  to 
you.  He  happens,  oddly  enough,  to  know  some- 
thing, I  have  been  told — is  not  the  regulation 
lay-figure,  you  know.  Probably  he  can  make 
you  more  comfortable." 

He  had  risen  while  speaking,  and  now 
moved  away  rapidly  before  I  had  time  to  reply. 

Rejected  as  a  patient  promptly  and  com- 
pletely, I  saw  myself,  with  keen  mortification. 
Did  this  mean  simply  that  Dr.  Kirke  did  not 
care  to  talk  shop  when  off  on  his  vacation,  or 

that  for  all  and  altogether  he  would  none  of  me  ? 
11 


CHAP.  XV  [  162  ] 

General  practise,  to  be  sure,  was  not  in  his  pres- 
ent line,  but  after  having  made  such  exception 
of  Irving  I  had  fancied  my  footing  secure.  The 
ship's  surgeon  soon  appearing  I  permitted  him 
to  give  me  a  few  harmless  powders  and  then  lay 
in  my  dizzy  languor  vainly  hoping  that  Dr. 
Kirke  would  return  and  talk  to  me.  In  this  en- 
counter I  had  certainly  been  repulsed  with  loss. 

The  Doctor  did  not  return,  and  I  soon  grew 
very  tired  of  looking  at  the  canvas-covered  rail 
over  which  no  speck  of  sea  showed  itself.  The 
fresh  wind  invigorated  me,  and  my  head  grew 
steadier.  I  wished  I  had  brought  out  some  book 
from  my  goodly  store.  Then  I  noticed  the  little 
book  left  by  Dr.  Kirke  lying  on  his  chair.  It 
looked  stupid;  I  picked  it  up,  glanced  at  the 
title,  and  gave  a  small  sigh  of  mock  resignation 
as  I  read,  "Aids  to  Reflection,"  and  nearly  a 
hundred  years  old  at  that.  What  could  be 
worse?  I  turned  the  leaves,  however,  and 
glanced  at  a  page  here  and  there  for  sheer 
ennui. 

My   eye,    catching   the   word    "Ballroom" 


[  163  ]  CHAP.  XV 

printed  with  quaint  capitalization,  ran  back  a 
page  to  find  the  connection.  The  writer  seemed 
to  start  with  this  sentence,  which  he  called  an 
"  Aphorism  " : — 

"  There  is  small  chance  of  Truth  at  the  Goal 
where  there  is  not  a  childlike  Humility  at  the 
Starting-post" 

That  struck  me  as  having  two  distinct  mer- 
its :  it  was  lucid  and  it  was  brief.  I  would  read 
a  little  more. 

"  It  would  be  a  sorry  proof  of  the  Humility 
I  am  extolling,  were  I  to  ask  for  Angel's  wings 
to  overfly  my  own  Human  Nature.  .  .  .  It  is 
enough  if  the  '  lene  clinamen,'  the  gentle  Bias, 
be  given  by  no  interest  that  concerns  myself 
other  than  as  I  am  a  Man,  and  included  in  the 
great  family  of  Mankind.  .  .  .  Widely  dif- 
ferent from  this  social  and  truth-attracted 
Bias,  different  both  in  its  nature  and  its  effects, 
is  the  Interest  connected  with  the  desire  of  dis- 
tinguishing yourself  from  other  men,  in  order 
to  be  distinguished  by  them.  Hoc  revera  est 
inter  te  et  veritatem:  this  Interest  does  indeed 


CHAP.  XV  [  164  ] 

stand  between  thee  and  thy  own  Soul.  .  .  . 
By  your  own  act  you  have  appointed  the  Many 
as  your  Judges  and  Appraisers :  for  the  anxiety 
to  be  admired  is  a  loveless  passion,  ever  strong- 
est with  regard  to  those  by  whom  we  are  least 
known  and  least  cared  for,  loud  on  the  Hust- 
ings,"— (What  were  the  Hustings'?  Something, 
I  believed,  connected  with  foxes) — "  gay  in  the 
Ballroom,  mute  and  sullen  at  the  family  Fire- 
side,"— Rather  like  Irving  that,  to  be  sure,  at 
times. 

"Applause  and  Preference  are  things  of 
Barter."  What  an  ugly  notion!  I  concluded 
to  skip.  Here  I  struck  upon  something  marked 
with  double  pencil  lines,  concerning  those  who 
"  prefer  a  philosophic  Paganism  to  the  moral- 
ity of  the  Gospel."  That  might  interest  me. 

"  Now  it  would  conduce,  methinks,  to  the 
Childlike  Humility  we  have  been  discoursing  of, 
if  ...  Christians,  restoring  the  word  (Vir- 
tue) to  its  original  import,  viz.:  Manhood  or 
Manliness,  used  it  exclusively  to  express  the 
quality  of  Fortitude ;  Strength  of  Character  in 


[  165  ]  CHAP.  XV 

relation  to  the  resistance  opposed  by  Nature 
and  the  irrational  Passions  to  the  Dictates  of 
Reason ;  Energy  of  Will  in  preserving  the  Line 
of  Rectitude  tense  and  firm  against  the  warping 
forces  and  treacheries  of  Temptation.  Surely, 
it  were  far  less  unseemly  to  value  ourselves  on 
this  moral  Strength  than  on  Strength  of  Body, 
or  even  Strength  of  Intellect.  .  .  .  What  more 
is  meant  in  this  last  paragraph,  let  the  venera- 
ble Hooker  say  for  me  .  .  ." 

"  From  the  venerable  Hooker  I  pray  to 
be  excused,"  I  commented  to  myself  and  was 
about  to  close  the  book  and  replace  it  where  I 
had  found  it.  A  quotation  from  Seneca  stood 
out  noticeably  alone  on  a  page  otherwise  blank. 
I  glanced  at  it  as  I  dropped  the  book  from  my 
hand.  The  simple  loftiness  of  the  words  has 
haunted  me  at  times  ever  since  that  moment. 

"  This  I  say,  Lucilius,  a  Holy  Spirit  abides 
ivithin  us,  the  observer  of  our  evil,  the  guardian 
of  our  good.  Just  as  he  has  been  drawn  by  us, 
so  he  himself  draws  us.  No  one  is  a  good  man 
without  God" 


CHAP.  XV  [  166  ] 

Having  now  received  all  the  Aids  to  Reflec- 
tion which  I  seemed  to  require,  and  rinding  that 
no  one  sought  me  in  my  corner,  except  the  wind, 
which  was  turning  cold  and  shrewish,  I  next  be- 
took me  to  my  stateroom  and  my  bed,  where  in 
truth  I  properly  belonged.  I  remained  all  day 
in  bed,  sleeping  much  of  the  time.  Sarah  Kirke 
came  in  to  see  me  for  a  moment  and  showed 
kindly  interest  and  concern.  I  was  at  pains  to 
tell  her  that  I  needed  no  medicine  whatever; 
without  doubt  the  sea  air  would  be  just  the  tonic 
best  suited  to  me.  Naturally  it  took  one  a  little 
time  to  become  fitted  to  the  change. 

At  five  o'clock  I  awoke  from  a  long  and  re- 
freshing sleep  and  was  astonished  at  the  late- 
ness of  the  hour.  I  slipped  over  to  my  sofa, 
drew  a  basket  of  fruit  to  the  side  of  it,  and  then 
sat  among  its  deep  cushions  in  luxurious  enjoy- 
ment of  a  great  tawny  peach  as  fragrant  as  it 
was  delicious. 

"  A  whole  day  lost,"  I  meditated,  "  and  only 
five  more  left  for  the  siege  of  Dr.  Kirke." 
Then  I  sat  perfectly  still  and  thought  steadily 


[  167  ]  CHAP.  XV 

for  ten  minutes.  As  a  conclusion  I  said  to  my- 
self, 

"  Perhaps  not  entirely  lost  even  yet,"  and 
with  that  pressed  the  electric  bell  and  ordered  a 
demi-tasse  of  black  coffee.  When  this  had  been 
taken  I  made  a  slow,  careful  toilet,  putting  on 
a  quiet  gown  of  dark  silk,  made  high  in  the 
throat  and  of  a  girlish  simplicity  of  outline  and 
effect,  but  a  gown  which  I  knew  to  be  peculiarly 
becoming.  By  the  time  dinner  was  announced 
I  was  a  wholly  different  being  from  the  pallid 
sufferer  of  the  morning.  Always  I  was  at  my 
best  in  the  evening,  and  now  I  perceived  with 
satisfaction  that,  although  my  skin  was  start- 
lingly  white,  its  tints  were  firm  and  warm  and 
there  was  deep  color  in  my  lips  and  luster  in 
my  eyes. 

I  had  come  to  a  clear  and  definite  perception 
that  while  the  line  on  which  I  had  heretofore  ap- 
proached Dr.  Kirke,  or  sought  to  approach  him, 
was  absolutely  hopeless,  I  had  still  at  my  dis- 
posal resources  which  might  prove  otherwise. 
I  had  treated  him  like  other  men  as  open  to  con- 


CHAP.  XV  [  168  ] 

viction  by  a  woman  on  the  personal  side,  if  so 
be  she  was  sufficiently  pretty,  clever  or  appeal- 
ing. So  long  as  I  moved  along  this  line  he 
would. remain  invulnerable.  For  some  reason 
he  was  not  open  to  attack  on  this  side.  It  re- 
mained to  be  seen  whether  he  were  equally  in- 
accessible on  other  lines.  If  there  was  any  field 
of  thought  or  activity  or  research  in  which  I 
was  confident  of  my  own  mastery,  in  which  I 
could  hold  my  own  fearlessly  and  on  equal 
terms  with  him,  I  might  yet  interest  him.  To 
do  more  than  this  I  had  not  the  slightest  desire, 
but  this  I  wished  more  deeply  than  ever  to  do. 
Hence  I  had  been  somewhat  carefully  taking 
a  mental  inventory  at  intervals  all  day.  My 
college  education  gave  me  the  broad  general 
basis  for  intercourse  with  an  intellectual  and 
scientific  man.  My  study  of  architecture  and 
mastery  of  its  history  and  details,  a  study 
known  only  to  my  husband  and  Ross  Kimball, 
gave  me  a  specialty  in  which  I  felt  the  power 
and  ease  of  the  thorough  and  enthusiastic  stu- 
dent. I  was  ready  to  try  one  more  experiment. 


[  169  ]  CHAP.  XV 

It  was  a  little  late  when  I  took  my  place  in 
the  glittering  dining  saloon  beside  Sarah  Kirke. 
The  Doctor  glanced  up  and  greeted  me  with  a 
certain  toleration  at  least,  I  thought,  and  his 
sister  pressed  my  hand  affectionately,  declaring 
I  looked  rested  and  made  over.  During  dinner 
I  asked  her  incidentally,  if  she  had  any  taste  for 
early  English  domestic  architecture,  especially 
for  those  curious,  unspoiled  old  English  manor- 
houses  which  one  sometimes  stumbles  upon 
when  well  off  the  tourist's  track. 

She  declared  herself  extremely  fond  of 
everything  of  the  kind  and  in  fact  prided  her- 
self, she  said,  somewhat  on  her  collection  of 
prints  of  these  subjects.  I  proceeded  to  give 
her  some  little  description  of  an  extremely 
quaint  Elizabethan  manor-house  near  Malvern, 
which  I  had  visited  with  my  aunt.  I  had  had 
permission  from  the  present  owner  to  take  as 
many  views  as  I  chose,  and  being  enamored  of 
the  ceilings,  staircases,  oriel  windows  and  the 
"  bench  ends  "  in  the  chapel,  I  had  gathered  a 
rather  large  harvest. 


CHAP.  XV  [  17O  ] 

As  I  talked  with  an  interest  which  I  by  no 
means  assumed,  showing  almost  unconsciously 
in  my  use  of  terms  my  familiarity  with  the  ar- 
chitecture of  the  country  and  period,  I  saw  that 
Dr.  Kirke  bent  a  little  forward  and  listened 
with  quickened  interest.  Before  we  rose  from 
the  table  he  had  joined  to  some  extent  in  the 
conversation.  As  we  left  the  dining-room  to- 
gether he  said, 

"  You  do  not  happen  to  have  with  you  any 
of  those  views  of  the  manor-house  of  which  you 
were  speaking,  do  you,  Mrs.  Lloyd?  I  should 
like  extremely  to  see  them." 

"  Why,  yes,  Dr.  Kirke,  some  of  them  I  am 
sure  are  in  my  steamer  trunk.  Would  you  care 
to  look  at  them  this  evening?  " 

Yes,  both  he  and  his  sister  cared  greatly  to 
see  them  as  soon  as  might  be.  Accordingly 
when  the  tables  had  been  cleared  in  the  saloon 
I  found  them  both  awaiting  my  appearance  with 
unmistakable  eagerness,  and  as  I  advanced 
down  the  room,  the  views  in  a  thin  brown  en- 
velope in  my  hand,  I  saw  that  Dr.  Kirke  watched 


[  171  ]  CHAP.  XV 

my  approach  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  with 
interest  and,  I  felt  also,  with  something  like  ap- 
proval. I  believed  that  the  simplicity  of  the  in- 
genue which  he  felt  about  me,  due  in  part  to  my 
dress  and  partly  to  the  very  real  timidity  with 
which  he  and  his  sister  inspired  me,  commended 
me  to  him  in  a  way  which  fashion  and  elegance 
and  self-confidence  could  never  have  done. 

I  sat  down  with  them,  the  Doctor  at  the  end 
of  the  table,  and  Sarah  Kirke  and  I  on  each 
side,  and  passed  on  my  photographs,  which  were 
of  extraordinary  beauty,  with  a  few  words  of 
simple  description  and  explanation.  They  were 
both  delighted.  Plainly  they  counted  this  an 
enviable  achievement.  The  Doctor  commented, 
with  a  keen  question  in  his  eyes,  on  my  very 
unusual  familiarity  with  architectural  matters. 
To  this  I  replied  demurely  that  I  thought  most 
wives  felt  a  peculiar  interest  in  the  details  of 
their  husband's  profession.  This  remark  I 
could  see  won  me  a  higher  place  in  Sarah 
Kirke's  favor  than  I  had  ever  reached  before, 
and  I  observed  the  Doctor  looking  at  me  shortly 


CHAP.  XV  [  173  ] 

after  with  much  the  same  musing  expression 
with  which  he  had  regarded  the  life-boat  in  the 
morning. 

It  soon  appeared,  as  one  line  led  to  another, 
that  Dr.  Kirke  was  an  enthusiast  and  something 
of  an  amateur  student  in  Tudor  Gothic.  A  long 
and  lively  discussion  of  French  and  English 
Gothic  in  general  ensued.  I  acquitted  myself 
with  boldness  and  confidence,  sailing  into  his 
opinions  without  the  smallest  hesitation  where 
I  honestly  differed  with  him,  and  once  or  twice 
convicting  him  of  some  minor  inaccuracy  in  ob- 
servation or  statement  with  frankly  mischievous 
triumph.  He  seemed  to  study  me  much  as  a  lion 
might  study  a  kitten,  and  I  saw  for  the  first  time 
the  peculiar  brooding  beauty  in  his  eyes,  which 
were  hazel,  and  large  and  clear,  but  somewhat 
robbed  of  the  effect  of  these  qualities  by  the 
very  heavy  overhanging  brows. 

We  were  all  amazed  when  Sarah  Kirke,  look- 
ing at  her  watch,  declared  it  was  after  eleven 
o'clock,  and  she  must  send  me  straight  to  bed 
else  I  would  be  drooping  again  in  the  morning. 


[  173  ]  CHAP.  XV 

The  Doctor  seemed  slightly  reluctant  to  break 
up  the  conversation,  but  I  rose  promptly,  bade 
them  good  night  in  a  respectful  fashion,  speak- 
ing gratefully  of  their  kindness  in  not  being 
bored  by  my  chatter,  and  so  betook  me  to  my 
cabin.  The  coffee  and  conversation  kept  me 
awake  until  far  into  the  night.  I  decided  then 
never  again  to  allude  to  my  ailments  and  never 
to  appear  on  deck  until  eleven  o'clock  in  the 
morning.  By  that  time,  I  now  ventured  to  be- 
lieve, Dr.  Kirke  would  be  glad  to  see  me  coming 
and  would  lay  aside  his  book  without  reluctance. 
This  policy  I  carried  out  and  considered  my  be- 
lief justified  by  the  event. 

The  voyage  was  notably  pleasant  and  in  the 
short  week  the  Kirkes  and  I  became  good 
friends  and  comrades.  There  was  a  strangely 
energizing  influence,  both  intellectual  and  moral, 
in  the  association  with  them,  unlike  anything  I 
had  known  before. 

Often  now,  and  always  to  my  satisfaction, 
the  Doctor  would  seek  me  out  and  walk  and  talk 
with  me  of  his  own  accord.  Plainly  I  was  right. 


CHAP.  XV  [  174  ] 

An  appeal  to  Ms  intelligence,  to  his  intellectual 
tastes,  would  win  Mm  to  a  serious,  sincere  sym- 
pathy. An  appeal  to  him  from  the  standpoint  of 
sex  and  self  did  not  touch  him  anywhere. 

The  morning  of  the  day  on  which  we  landed 
in  New  York  the  Doctor  came  up  as  I  stood  on 
deck  watching  the  approach  of  the  pilot-boat. 
For  a  full  minute  he  stood  looking  down  upon 
me  with  an  attentive  but  gentle  and  even  earnest 
scrutiny,  quite  unlike  any  look  he  had  ever  be- 
fore bestowed  upon  me. 

"Welll"  I  said  at  length,  lifting  my  chin 
slightly  with  my  lips  pressed  together  in  a  sort 
of  playful  defiance,  which  I  had  found  he  could 
do  with  very  well  on  occasion. 

"  Your  lips  are  too  red,  Mrs.  Lloyd,"  he  said 
quietly;  "they  are  scarlet  this  morning,  and 
they  were  yesterday." 

I  knew  this  was  not  compliment;  could  it 
actually  be  professional? 

"Pardon  me,"  he  continued,  and  took  my 
hand  in  his,  then  drew  his  flexible,  trained  fin- 
ger-tips lightly  across  my  forehead  and  cheek. 


[  175  ]  CHAP.  XV 

"  Yes,  it  is  as  I  thought.  Your  temperature  must 
be  half  a  degree  below  normal."  With  this  he 
put  thumb  and  finger  in  his  vest-pocket  and 
drawing  out  a  small  pasteboard  box,  gave  it  into 
my  hand. 

"  Take  these  powders,  if  you  will,"  he  said, 
smiling  slightly,  possibly  at  the  surprise  in  my 
face ;  "  the  directions  are  with  them.  I  had  them 
put  up  for  you  in  the  pharmacy  down-stairs." 

I  dropped  my  eyelids,  fearing  that  my  eyes 
would  shoot  their  rays  of  exultation  plainly  to 
his  sight.  What  could  be  more  deadly  common- 
place than  that  neat  diminutive  yellow  paper 
box?  But  it  meant  more  to  me  than  many  a 
more  romantic  symbol  could  have  done.  It 
meant  that  I  had  won  my  siege. 


XVI 

SOON  after  my  return  Mrs.  Owen  came  to  see 
me.  For  a  little  while  we  talked  over  various 
Paris  experiences,  but  she  soon  led  up  to  the  sub- 
ject which  I  saw  was  uppermost  in  her  mind, — 
the  gowns  from  Carlier's.  Hers  had  been  re- 
ceived a  week  before  and  was  a  dream  of  per- 
fection— in  mauve.  Had  mine  come  I  As  far  as 
I  knew,  nothing  of  the  kind  had  been  received  at 
the  house  during  my  absence,  and  certainly  not 
since  my  return.  Mrs.  Owen  seemed  greatly  sur- 
prised, deeply  concerned,  was  very  much  afraid 
even  that  it  might  not  now  arrive  in  time  for 
the  great  event  of  October  second.  Should  she 
not  get  Mr.  Owen  to  speak  to  Mr.  Kimball  about 
it?  Not  for  worlds,  I  replied  emphatically.  Be- 
neath the  nimble  staccato  of  her  sympathetic 
expressions  I  clearly  detected  the  note  of  secret 
elation  as  she  realized  that  her  interests  had 


[  177  ]  CHAP.  XVI 

been  followed  up  with  so  much  greater  care  and 
promptness  than  had  mine.  I  professed  myself 
rather  indifferent  as  to  the  arrival  of  the  gown 
at  this  or  any  other  time. 

"  You  have  no  idea,  really,  what  it  is  to  be 
like?"  she  asked  eagerly.  "I  had  not,  you 
know,  either,  but  mine  is  far  more  beautiful 
than  I  expected,  even  of  Carlier,  and  it  really  is 
very  becoming.  Mr.  Owen  is  simply  charmed. 
I  do  hope,  my  dear,  that  you  are  not  to  be  dis- 
appointed. It  some  way  seems  so  careless,  does 
it  not?  I  am  surprised  that  Mr.  Kimball  should 
not  have  taken  more  pains.  He  might  have 
looked  after  it  a  little  himself,  even,  and  then 
it  would  have  been  sure." 

"  Oh,  Mrs.  Owen !  "  I  replied,  "  I  certainly 
should  not  expect  that.  He  did  quite  enough  in 
planning  it  in  the  first  place.  Mr.  Kimball  has 
a  few  things  on  his  mind,  you  know,  of  a  larger 
concern  than  an  evening  dress  for  the  wife  of 
one  of  his  employees." 

Notwithstanding  this  very  sensible  statement 

of  mine  I  was  slightly  piqued  and  disturbed 
12 


CHAP.  XVI  [  178  ] 

when  up  to  the  last  days  of  September  no  allu- 
sion to  the  expected  gown  was  made  by  Mr. 
Kimball,  whom  I  saw  two  or  three  times,  and  no 
box  from  Carlier  arrived.  Evidently  the  whole 
thing  had  been  lost  sight  of  and  it  was  then  im- 
possible to  have  a  costume  prepared  suited  to 
the  very  magnificent  affair  with  which  Mr.  Kim- 
ball  was  to  open  his  house.  Mrs.  Kimball  would 
receive  her  own  exclusive  and  select  circle  on 
Wednesday,  the  first  day  of  October,  in  the 
afternoon. 

The  affair  of  Thursday  night  would  be  a 
magnificent  fete  and  ball  with  music  by  several 
famous  orchestras  in  the  house  and  garden. 
'  The  illuminations  of  both  these  were  to  be  su- 
perb in  the  extreme,  while  the  decoration  of  the 
house  would  employ  the  services  of  the  best  flo- 
rists from  New  York  as  well  as  from  Boston. 
This  much  I  had  learned  from  Irving  and  also  in 
part  from  Mrs.  Owen,  who  lightly  let  fall  the 
fact  that  she  was  invited  to  both  functions,  the 
very  exclusive  one  of  Wednesday  afternoon  as 
well  as  the  more  general  one  of  Thursday  night. 


[  179  ]  CHAP.  XVI 

It  was  not  in  an  altogether  unclouded  mood 
that  I  set  myself  to  work,  five  days  before  that 
long-anticipated  Thursday  night,  to  look  over 
my  two  or  three  very  simple  evening  dresses 
and  decide  which  could  be  most  advantageously 
freshened  up  and  put  in  order  for  the  great  oc- 
casion. The  choice  lay  between  a  pale  green 
gauze  which  had  an  undeniably  languid  droop 
to  its  flounces,  a  thin  white  silk  which  I  had 
never  considered  an  unqualified  success,  and  a 
simple  but  very  pretty  blue  embroidered  mull 
which  I  had  bought  outright  at  a  bargain  in 
Paris  and  had  worn  a  number  of  times  in  Eng- 
land. It  was  still  a  charming  gown,  but  its  first 
freshness  was  gone  and  I  tossed  it  rather  sulkily 
over  a  chair-back  and  began  seriously  to  con- 
sider regretting  Mr.  Kimball's  grand  ball  since 
he  had  been  so  palpably  negligent  in  forgetting 
me.  The  strongest  argument  against  this  was 
that  I  was  wild  to  go,  and  as  far  as  I  could  judge 
Mr.  Kimball  cared  very  little  whether  I  came  or 
not.  Consequently  my  absence  would  punish  no 
one  particularly  but  myself. 


CHAP.  XVI  [  ISO  ] 

I  ate  my  solitary  lunch  in  a  very  bad  temper. 
The  dining-room  seemed  low  and  dark  to  me; 
the  treasured  bits  of  ware  on  my  buffet  had  a 
kind  of  doll-house  shelf  effect,  cheap  and  child- 
ish; the  simple  fare — toast  and  a  chop,  with  a 
cup  of  tea  and  fruit  afterward,  served  by  the 
cook  herself  at  one  end  of  the  table — made  me 
feel  like  a  respectable  seamstress  or  nurse.  I 
had  become  so  accustomed  to  grandeur  and  com- 
plexity ! 

As  I  rose  from  the  table  the  maid  was  called 
to  the  front  door  and  when  I  came  into  the  hall 
I  found  her  holding  out  in  both  arms  an  enor- 
mous foreign-looking  pasteboard  package. 

"  Has  the  man  gone!  "  I  asked  quickly. 

"  Yes,  ma'am,"  was  the  reply.  "  Everything 
was  paid,  he  said.  Where  shall  I  take  it, 
ma'am? " 

"  Up-stairs,"  I  said  carelessly.  "  Is  it  heavy  ? 
Shall  I  help  you?" 

"  Oh,  it's  as  light  as  a  feather,  ma'am,  to  what 
it  looks,"  and  with  this  she  slowly  mounted  the 
stairs.  By  the  time  the  package  had  been  de- 


[  181  ]  CHAP.  XVI 

posited  on  my  bed  I  had  no  longer  a  ray  of 
doubt  as  to  its  contents,  and  my  low  spirits  had 
already  given  way  to  eager  expectation.  How- 
ever, I  concealed  my  eagerness  until  the  maid 
was  well  out  of  the  way ;  then  with  swift  strokes 
I  cut  the  numberless  cords  which  had  plainly 
been  renewed  in  the  Custom  House,  threw  off 
the  outer  and  inner  covers,  and  drew  out  to  sight 
my  Carlier  gown  packed  in  folds  of  cotton  and 
tissue  with  consummate  skill.  -But  the  common- 
place details  of  this  kind  were  instantly  for- 
gotten when  I  saw  the  gown  itself,  for  it  was  the 
most  beautiful  work  of  its  kind  which  I  had  ever 
beheld. 

I  laughed  low  to  myself  remembering  all  the 
patter  about  extreme  simplicity,  a  narrow  band 
of  embroidery,  the  jeune  fille  effect,  and  all  the 
other — lies.  The  gown  was  of  finest  cream 
white  crepe,  the  front  of  the  skirt  and  corsage, 
however,  being  composed  largely  of  white  satin 
of  incredible  fineness,  embroidered  by  hand  at 
intervals  with  pink  sweetbrier  roses  and  their 
leaves.  The  stamens  were  in  gold  thread  topped 


CHAP.  XVI  [  183  ] 

by  seed-pearls.  The  shoulder-straps  were  of 
flexible  enamel  on  gold,  a  design  of  tiny  closely 
crowded  rosebuds.  In  the  folds  of  the  gown  I 
discovered  a  small  box  containing  a  band  for 
the  throat  of  the  same  design  on  the  same  flex- 
ible enamel  joined  by  a  gold  clasp  set  with 
pearls.  Upon  this  discovery  I  felt  a  hot  flush 
run  over  my  whole  body  and  my  heart  beat  very 
fast.  I  knew  it  was  more  than  I  ought  to  accept 
from  any  man  for  any  consideration,  and  yet — . 
The  whole  costume  was  simple  in  its  sumptuous- 
ness;  it  contained  in  a  superlative  degree  in- 
deed that  irresistible  charm  of  Parisian  art,  the 
exquisite  restraint,  the  horror  of  the  too  much, 
in  which  I  most  delighted.  The  ornament  was 
wholly  in  keeping.  I  removed  my  gown  and 
stood  with  bare  shoulders  and  arms  in  my  deli- 
cate lace-trimmed  corset-cover,  and  fastened  the 
band  around  my  throat.  I  saw  that  the  effect 
was  strangely  beautiful.  I  saw  that  it  became 
me  marvelously.  Then  I  said  to  myself,  "  I 
shall  probably  not  wear  that  Thursday  night, 
and  afterward  I  can  return  it  to  Mr.  Kimball, 


[  183  ]  CHAP.  XVI 

and  tell  him  that  I  never  consented  to  receive 
more  than  the  gown." 

However,  when  Thursday  night  came  I  wore 
the  band.  I  called  Irving  in  to  see  me  when  I 
was  dressed,  without  it,  and  then  I  put  it  on 
and  said  indifferently, 

"  Mr.  Kimball  sent  this  too,  but  I  don't  be- 
lieve it  is  best  to  wear  it.  You  wouldn't  if  you 
were  in  my  place,  would  you?  " 

To  which  Irving,  delighted  with  the  finishing 
touch  the  ornament  gave  to  my  appearance, 
said, 

"  Why,  wear  it,  of  course,  Sidney.  It  is  be- 
witchingly  pretty  on  you  and  it  goes  with  the 
dress.  What  difference  does  it  make  that  it 
happens  not  to  be  sewed  on  like  the  other  trim- 
ming? " 

The  house  and  grounds  when  we  reached 
them  that  night  were  more  beautiful  than 
any  dream,  more  beautiful  than  anything  but 
the  magic  which  money  can  conjure  up  in 
these  modern  days.  Hundreds  of  people  were 
there,  but  it  was  all  on  so  large  a  scale 


CHAP.  XVI  [  184  ] 

that  one  could  not  realize  it.  No  room  was 
at  any  time  crowded.  Mrs.  Kimball  had  ap- 
peared for  a  little  time  earlier,  but  had  with- 
drawn before  we  arrived.  Mrs.  Owen  with  her 
husband  was  helping  Mr.  Kimball  to  receive  in 
the  picture-gallery,  beyond  the  great  entrance- 
hall.  Her  gown,  I  noted  with  a  swift  glance, 
was  extremely  rich  and  handsome,  but  mine,  al- 
though apparently  simpler,  was  in  a  different 
class.  Her  first  unconscious  look  of  startled 
surprise  betrayed  her  perception  of  the  fact. 
Instantly,  however,  she  commanded  an  affec- 
tionate smile,  but  the  smile,  I  noted,  had  an  acid 
reaction.  As  I  passed  on  she  said  with  much 
empressement, 

"  My  dear,  you  are  superb !  How  glad  I  am 
that  it  came !  " 

Mr.  KimbalPs  hand  was  extended,  and  he  de- 
tained me  for  a  moment,  letting  his  eyes  flatter 
me.  A  strange,  half-triumphant  smile  hovered 
about  his  lips. 

"  Ah,  how  glad  I  am  that  your  gown  was  re- 
ceived in  time,"  he  said  in  an  undertone.  "  As 


[  185  ]  CHAP.  XVI 

you  had  said  nothing  I  began  to  fear  that  there 
might  have  been  a  delay."  For  some  reason  as 
he  made  this  remark  the  conviction  flashed  upon 
me  that  my  gown  had  been  in  Boston  as  long  as 
had  Mrs.  Owen's.  I  was  beginning  to  learn  a 
certain  balanced  rhythm  of  calculation  in  all 
that  proceeded  from  this  man. 

"  Thank  you,  no,"  I  said  composedly.  "  It 
reached  me  in  ample  time — in  perfect  condition. 
I  must  wait  till  another  time  to  thank  you,  Mr. 
Kimball." 

"  Thank  me  at  your  peril ! "  he  said,  with  a 
warning  shake  of  the  head.  "  I  have  had  my 
reward." 

I  passed  on  filled  with  a  bewildering  sense 
that  I  had  after  all  compromised  myself  far  be- 
yond anything  I  had  imagined  in  accepting  and 
in  wearing  these  gifts.  Mrs.  Owen's  look  alone 
had  given  me  a  measure  of  their  value.  I  was 
convinced  now  that  the  delay  had  been  a  very 
delicate  bit  of  diplomacy  on  Boss  Kimball's 
part.  With  what  admirable  docility  I  had 
played  the  role  and  run  through  the  gamut  of 


CHAP.  XVI  [  186  ] 

emotions  assigned  to  me!  Fearing  revolt  if  I 
had  much  time  for  sober  thought,  he  had  starved 
me  with  disappointment  and  then  dazzled  me 
with  splendor  until  I  was  tractable! 

"  Come,  Sidney,"  said  Irving,  breaking  into 
my  hot  and  passionate  reverie.  "  We  must  go 
now  where  glory  waits  us.  I  can  not  wait  any 
longer  to  show  you  the  west  wing." 

In  another  ten  minutes  every  disagreeable 
reflection  was  lost  and  forgotten  in  the  unpar- 
alleled delight  of  seeing  my  own  conceptions  re- 
alized in  complete  and  splendid  maturity,  my 
seed-thought  full  blossoming  now  under  the 
skilled  and  fostering  hands  of  masters  of  their 
craft. 

In  entering  the  west  wing  we  passed  first 
through  the  wide  central  hall,  from  which,  on 
either  side  opened  with  a  large  arch  a  conversa- 
tion or  reception  room.  The  hall  gave  direct 
access  at  its  farther  end  to  the  enormous  music- 
room.  From  the  music-room  a  vaulted,  mosaic- 
paved  vestibule  not  more  than  fifteen  feet 
square,  lined  with  yellow  Sienna  marble,  led  to 
the  entrance  of  the  great  octagonal  library. 


[  187  ]  CHAP.  XVI 

The  first  step,  as  we  advanced  into  this  part 
of  the  building,  brought  us,  as  I  had  intended, 
into  an  environment  of  Oriental  gorgeousness. 
The  reception-rooms  first  entered,  compara- 
tively small  in  dimensions,  were,  on  the  right, 
Persian,  on  the  left  Moorish.  Walls,  ceilings, 
floors,  furnishings  gave  in  rich,  unbroken  har- 
mony the  Oriental  genius,  vivid,  subtle,  mysti- 
cal. Here  was  the  half-barbaric  riot  of  strong, 
unshaded  color,  thick  crusted  with  gold;  the 
infinite  intricacies  of  interlacing  line  in  ara- 
besque; the  mysterious,  baffling  patience  of  de- 
tail; the  grotesque,  bizarre  symbolism. 

This,  in  my  thought,  was  the  place  for 
Speech,  and  in  human  development  stood  for 
the  Child.  I  saw  it  and  was  satisfied.  Here  was 
the  stage  and  scenic  basis  for  the  daily  inter- 
course of  life — for  conversation,  for  sunny  rev- 
erie, also,  and  warm,  secluded  repose.  The  sole 
flowers  which  had  been  placed  here  were  pop- 
pies, which  were  everywhere  in  great  bowls  of 
chased  brass. 

We  passed  on  into  the  lofty  harmony  of  the 


CHAP.  XVI  [  188  ] 

music-room,  and  here  I  could  not  control  my 
frank  delight.  This  was  pure  Greek  and  the 
ensemble  of  proportion,  line,  column,  color, 
smote  upon  my  sense  like  noble  music,  although 
the  place  was  still.  The  acanthus  and  the  an- 
themion  gave  the  keynote  to  the  decoration  in 
frieze  and  meander ;  the  latter  with  its  firm  yet 
flowing  and  graceful  curves  of  flute  and  trum- 
pet-like suggestion.  All  the  color  here  was  pure 
and  lucid,  of  pastel  clearness  and  transparency. 
It  seemed  to  me  the  French  tapestry  weavers 
and  the  American  mural  painters  had  done 
their  work  in  perfection,  as  had  all  the  other 
artists  and  craftsmen.  Everywhere,  in  panel, 
molding,  ornament,  and  ceiling,  was  the  deli- 
cate, graceful  sensuousness  of  the  Greek  and  his 
blithe  and  buoyant  joy  in  existence.  Between 
the  great  windows  of  the  north  wall  was  painted 
the  voyage  of  the  Argonauts,  with  the  Sirens, 
and  Orpheus  discoursing  his  "  diviner  music." 
Opposite,  on  the  south  wall,  was  the  Spirit  of 
Music,  an  exquisite  figure  surrounded  by  youths 
and  maidens,  dancing  in  a  flowery,  sunlit 


[  189  ]  CHAP.  XVI 

meadow.  The  four  panels  of  tapestry  repre- 
sented Apollo  and  Daphne,  Orpheus  and  Euryd- 
ice,  Echo  and  Narcissus  and  Butes  and  Aphro- 
dite. The  coloring  was  of  surpassing  brilliancy 
and  purity.  Throughout  the  room  fresh  honey- 
suckles and  orange-blossoms  were  scattered  in 
profusion. 

To  my  thought  this  room  typified  Youth — 
the  youth  of  the  race,  its  poetry  and  romance. 
I  looked  and  was  satisfied. 

We  went  on  between  the  yellow  marble  walls 
of  the  vestibule  and  stood  to  study  the  entabla- 
ture of  the  library  portal,  a  facsimile  of  the 
doorway  to  the  Temple  at  Philse,  with  the 
symbolic  globe  and  asps,  giving  the  incompar- 
ably imposing  effect  of  its  wide,  overshadowing 
wings. 

Just  within  the  portal  stood  two  bronzes, 
copies  of  antiques,  one  on  either  hand.  On  the 
right,  Horus  with  the  Lotus  Flower,  the  God  of 
Silence  and  the  nascent  Sun,  his  finger  on  his 
lips;  on  the  left,  the  impressive  Scribe,  of  the 
Louvre.  Facing  us  across  the  diameter  of  the 


CHAP.  XVI  [  190  ] 

room  was  the  colossal  chimneypiece,  a  propylon 
of  polished  red  Numidian  marble,  carved  with 
hieroglyphics.  In  the  space  above  it  was  a 
painting  of  the  great  Sphinx  of  Thebes  with  the 
motto  below: 

"  Who  telleth  one  of  my  secrets 
Is  master  of  all  that  I  am." 

The  remaining  six  sides  of  the  octagon  were 
filled  with  book-shelves,  divided  by  richly 
carved  pillars  of  red  mahogany,  their  capitals 
bearing  the  lotus,  the  bell-shaped  papyrus  bud, 
or  the  palm.  Six  feet  above  the  floor  the  win- 
dows were  placed,  and  above  them  ran  a  light 
gallery  giving  access  to  the  second  tier  of  books. 
Just  below  the  massive  rafters  of  the  roof  in 
a  fine  frieze  appeared  the  birds  of  Egypt,  the 
sacred  ibis,  the  heron  and  the  crane.  The  ceil- 
ing showed  an  astronomical  chart,  the  constella- 
tions gold,  on  a  deep  blue  ground,  surrounded 
by  the  zodiac.  The  coloring  was  grave,  power- 
ful, deep-toned. 

To  my  thought  the  genius  of  Egypt,  hoary, 
silent,  with  its  severe,  rigid  dignity,  its  intellec- 


[  191  ]  CHAP.  XVI 

trial  mastery,  its  massive  mystery,  its  profound 
symbolism,  signified  the  mature  Man.  I  saw 
and  was  satisfied.  Everywhere  here,  I  noticed, 
in  open  jars  were  exotic  water-lilies,  white  and 
blue  and  rose. 

Mr.  Hook  joined  us  in  the  library  and  we 
spent  an  hour  together  discussing  the  success  of 
these  decorations.  The  master-architect  was 
emphatic  in  his  approval  of  Irving's  work  and 
in  spite  of  my  protesting  glance  Irving  there- 
upon explained  to  him  the  part  which  I  had  had 
in  his  designs.  Upon  this  Mr.  Hook  bestowed 
upon  me,  albeit  in  a  few  words,  a  serious  intel- 
lectual homage  which  I  felt  to  be  one  of  the  cli- 
maxes of  life  as  I  had  thus  far  lived  it.  As  we 
slowly  moved  back  to  the  central  portion  of  the 
house  and  up  the  staircase  to  the  ballroom 
whither  all  were  now  gravitating,  I  seemed  to 
walk  on  air,  and  to  be  borne  along  by  the  buoy- 
ancy of  my  exultation,  the  honest,  if  intoxicat- 
ing, pleasure  of  artistic  achievement.  Different 
mirrors  as  we  passed  them  gave  me  back  a  re- 
flection of  myself  which  seemed  to  me  a  miracle. 


CHAP.  XVI  [  192  ] 

I  did  not  know  that  I  could  look  as  I  looked  then 
in  the  lustrous  loveliness  of  that  gown,  and  with 
my  face  transfigured  by  the  stimulus  of  per- 
sonal triumph.  Men  and  women  who  saw  me 
fell  in  love  with  me  for  the  moment,  and  I  fell  in 
love  with  myself.  Dancing  was  welcome  to  me 
as  an  expression  of  the  buoyant  delight  which 
filled  me,  body  and  mind. 

Eoss  Kimball  came  himself  and  claimed  me 
for  one  dance  and  I  forgave  him  all  that  I  had 
been  heaping  up  against  him  of  doubt  and  mis- 
trust. Let  all  that  go  for  to-night!  Surely 
never  was  there  a  more  generous  friend  and 
benefactor.  Why  should  I  smirch  the  beauty  of 
his  kindliness  by  mean  suspicion?  Our  dance 
over,  he  brought  me  a  glass  of  champagne  and 
stood  over  me  while  I  drank  it,  saying  that  I 
looked  white.  Then,  declaring  that  he  had  been 
on  host's  duty  long  enough,  he  led  me  on  through 
an  open  window  into  the  garden,  past  the  great 
southern  porte-cochere  and  so  along  a  dusky, 
fragrant  terrace  beneath  the  central  pile  of  the 
house  and  half  the  west  wing.  Opposite  the 


[  193  ]  CHAP.  XVI 

music-room  windows  we  paused.  They  were 
opened  to  the  floor,  and  light  streamed  out 
through  them. 

"  Let  us  go  in  a  moment,"  he  said,  "  I  have 
not  yet  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  your  work, 
with  you.  Don't  you  think  that  is  a  privilege 
mine  by  right? " 

I  acquiesced,  with  a  faint  flutter  of  misgiv- 
ing at  my  heart  below  the  keen  gratification  I 
always  found  in  each  new  sign  of  this  man's 
imperious  devotion  to  myself.  Something  in 
his  tone  reminded  me  of  the  morning  on  the 
terrace  in  Paris,  when  he  had  spoken  to  me  of 
the  Carlier  gown.  Again  the  sense  of  being 
wound  closer  and  closer  in  an  inextricable  net 
came  over  me,  but  for  an  instant  only.  The  wild 
reckless  thrill  of  the  music  to  which  we  had  been 
dancing  still  ran  in  my  blood  and  the  wine 
added  its  incitement  to  my  exuberant  self-con- 
fidence. The  net  must  surely  be  of  rose  mesh  if 
net  there  were. 

We  found  the  music-room  deserted,  upon 
which  I  felt  a  change  in  Mr.  Kimball's  manner. 

13 


CHAP.  XVI  [  194  ] 

He  praised  the  work  in  which  I  had  had  part 
most  cordially  and  yet  he  grew  graver,  and  his 
courteous  attention  a  shade  colder,  I  thought, 
as  we  crossed  from  side  to  side  of  the  beautiful 
room  discussing  its  effects  and  what  was  yet  left 
to  desire.  After  a  few  moments  I  moved  on 
through  the  vestibule  to  the  Egyptian  doorway. 
I  stood  for  a  moment,  glancing  back,  across  the 
width  of  the  music-room.  From  where  I  stood 
I  could  even  catch  a  glimpse  in  the  background 
of  a  portion  of  the  magnificent  color  and  splen- 
did hieroglyphics  of  the  Moorish  room.  I 
glanced  beyond  me  then  into  the  deep  library 
and  back  again.  Something  in  my  face  caught 
Mr.  KimbalPs  attention.  He  stood  in  front  of 
a  heavy  Alexandrian  hanging  before  a  door  in 
the  vestibule  side  wall. 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked  smiling. 

"Nothing  particularly.  I  was  simply  ta- 
king it  in,  that  is  all.  It  is  pagan,  is  it  not?  com- 
pletely. There  is  the  Saracen,  a  barbarous  sen- 
sualist after  all,  when  you  have  seen  the  Greek, 
—and  the  Greek  himself,  and  then,  here,  old 


[  195  ]  CHAP.  XVI 

Egypt,  the  worst  pagan  of  the  lot!  I  never 
thought  of  it  before.  You  might  imagine  it  was 
done  before — anything  happened,  you  know, 
1  down  in  Judee,'  as  Hosea  Biglow  says.  And 
there  is  not  a  modern  touch  anywhere,  Mr.  Kim- 
ball!  Do  you  mind?" 

"  Not  as  long  as  I  have  the  modern  touch 
right  here,"  and  he  laid  his  hand  lightly  on  my 
arm.  "  You  are  sufficiently  modern  to  atone  for 
all  the  antiquity  of  the  rest.  I  confess  it  may  be 
a  little  dreary  when  you  are  out  of  it." 

He  turned  now,  pushed  away  the  curtain, 
and  unlocked  the  door  which  it  had  concealed. 
This  door  opened  into  a  narrow  passage  from 
which  his  private  staircase  gave  the  only  access 
to  the  second  floor  of  the  octagon,  tower.  The 
key  to  this  door  Mr.  Kimball  had  always  kept 
himself,  as  he  wished  one  place,  he  said,  where  he 
could  keep  certain  of  his  possessions  in  absolute 
privacy.  This  portion  of  the  tower  had  not  as 
yet  been  finished  off,  however.  This  at  least  was 
what  Irving  and  I  had  supposed. 

"I  have  another  modern  touch   up-stairs 


CHAP.  XVI  [  196  ] 

also,"  he  said  in  an  incidental  careless  tone. 
"  Come,  I  want  to  show  you  a  picture  I  have 
just  received  from  Paris.  You  have  not  been 
up-stairs  yet,  perhaps  I  " 

"  Why  no,"  I  replied  gaily,  "  I  didn't  know 
the  upper  part  of  the  tower  was  open  to  vis- 
itors. I  thought  it  was  hopelessly  private,  and 
hopelessly  unfinished." 

"You  can  go  up  all  right,"  he  said  in  the 
same  negligent  manner. 

I  entered  the  small  passage,  which  was 
lighted  only  from  above.  Except  for  a  narrow 
grade  door  opposite  the  one  by  which  we  had 
entered,  which  must,  I  saw,  open  directly  on  the 
terrace,  the  walls  were  unbroken. 

"  Shall  I  precede !  "  Mr.  Kimball  had  closed 
the  door  behind  us.  He  bowed  with  ceremoni- 
ous courtesy  and  passed  me,  leading  the  way 
up.  The  long  metal  staircase  was  narrow  and 
interrupted  by  several  landings  protected  by  a 
wrought-iron  rail.  It  was  brightly  lighted  from 
above. 

"  The  enormous  height  of  the  library  neces- 


[  197  ]  CHAP.  XVI 

sitates  a  pretty  stiff  flight  of  stairs  here,"  said 
my  host  as  we  reached  the  top,  and  he  preceded 
me  down  a  spacious  corridor,  next  the  wall.  I 
now  perceived  within  the  octagonal  wall  of  the 
tower,  above  the  library,  the  smaller  octagon 
which  had  been  constructed,  precisely  following 
the  lines  of  the  one  below,  but  with  a  diameter 
not  more  than  half  as  great,  leaving  a  corridor 
around  its  whole  circumference. 


XVII 

MB.  KIMBALL  now  opened  a  door  into  this 
enclosed  chamber  and  I  entered,  commenting 
upon  my  interest  in  first  observing  at  the  mo- 
ment the  precise  construction  of  this  part  of  the 
tower,  and  my  curiosity  regarding  the  new  pic- 
ture. 

"  Did  you  say  it  came  from  Paris  I " 

"  Yes." 

The  room  as  I  stepped  into  it  was  very  dimly 
lighted,  but  as  Mr.  Kimball  followed  me  in,  clos- 
ing the  door  behind  him,  soft  lights  sprang  up 
everywhere  around  and  before  me,  and  espe- 
cially over  my  head.  I  looked  up  and  saw  that 
myriads  of  electric  lights  were  shining  down 
through  the  horizontal  windows  of  richly  jew- 
eled glass,  diffusing  a  soft  glowing  radiance. 
There  were  no  other  windows. 

I  stood  spellbound.    The  intoxicating  bitter- 


[  199  ]  CHAP.  XVII 

sweet  perfume  of  hyacinths  filled  the  room. 
Bowls  of  them,  cream-white  and  pink,  stood  on 
stands  and  tables ;  and  roses  were  present  also 
in  profusion;  these  flowers  only  were  in  the 
room  I  observed.  Just  opposite  I  saw,  slowly 
approaching  me,  the  figure  of  a  stately  fair- 
haired  woman  with  delicate  color  in  her  cheeks 
and  shining  eyes,  clothed  in  gleaming  white, 
shot  here  and  there  with  roses.  The  figure  was 
my  own.  That  section  of  the  wall  was  mirror. 
On  either  hand  were  creamy  white  panels,  four 
in  number,  of  richest  tapestry  bearing  wild 
roses,  dropped  singly  or  falling  in  graceful 
flowing  garlands  from  the  hands  of  floating 
nymphs.  I  recognized  these  panels  at  once,  and 
recalled  the  mysterious  incident  in  the  tapestry 
works.  Behind  me,  I  perceived,  the  large  panel 
in  which  the  entrance-door  was  set  was  also 
mirror. 

The  floor  was  covered  with  a  white  rug, 
showing  roses  in  the  border.  The  room  was 
exquisitely  furnished,  but  with  quiet,  unpreten- 
tious effect,  the  broad  sofas  and  chairs  being 


CHAP.  XVII  [  2OO  ] 

covered  in  chintz,  white,  with  wild  roses  running 
over. 

Books  and  magazines  were  everywhere.    On 

an  easel  stood  a  pastel  portrait  study  by  Bol- 

dini  which  I  had  seen  in  Paris.  Mr.  Kimball  had 

always  insisted  that  it  reminded  him  of  me  in 

.  pose  and  coloring. 

The  ensemble  of  the  room  was  of  an  enchant- 
ing loveliness  with  a  singular  effect  of  enga- 
ging, homelike,  traulichkeit,  skilfully  achieved. 
There  was  even  a  sewing-table  with  a  little  low 
rocking-chair  beside  it. 

"  What  a  darling  place !  "  I  cried. 

Mr.  Kimball  stood  before  me. 

"Does  it  please  you?"  he  asked  with  his 
peculiar  smile.  "It  has  been  prepared  for  a 
darling  woman."  So  speaking  he  gave  me  a 
chair.  My  limbs  trembled  so  that  I  was  forced 
to  sink  into  it  to  conceal  my  rising  agita- 
tion. Even  as  I  did  so  I  perceived  that  it  was 
a  chair  which  I  had  always  fancied  for  myself 
at  the  Monceau  villa,  or  a  precise  facsimile  of  it. 

"Those  are  the  first  roses  I  have  seen  to- 


[  3O1  ]  CHAP.  XVII 

night,"  I  said  hastily,  seeking  to  conceal  my 
throbbing  dread. 

"  Yes.  Roses  were  set  apart  for  you  to- 
night. The  hyacinths  too,  of  course.  The  white 
hyacinth  is  you." 

"  It  is  all  perfectly  lovely,  Mr.  Kimball,"  I 
said  cordially,  though  with  inward  constraint. 

"  I  wished  to  make  it  so,"  he  returned  quite 
simply,  and  then  with  a  sudden  unforeseen 
movement  he  caught  my  hand  and  pressed  it  to 
his  lips.  "  This  room  is  for  you  and  for  you 
alone.  Here  are  the  keys.  One  for  this  door, 
one  for  the  door  below.  No  one  on  this  side  of 
the  ocean  has  seen  it — in  its  present  guise.  Oh, 
Lit,  to  be  sure,  but  that  is  nothing.  He  has  to 
take  care  of  it." 

I  stared  at  him  uncomprehending. 

"  French  workmen  have  done  it  all  while  you 
were  abroad,"  and  he  made  a  sweeping  gesture 
of  his  right  hand  around  him.  "  They  have 
gone  back  now.  It  is  our  secret — yours  and 
mine." 

Then  followed  words  of  concentrated  pas- 


CHAP.  XVII  [  2O2  ] 

sion,  charged  with  the  mastery  of  this  man's  al- 
most preternatural  insight  into  the  workings  of 
my  mind.  He  stood  before  me  armed  with  his 
power  of  awakening  that  strange  nerve-thrill  in 
me ;  his  remarkable  personal  beauty  and  his  sin- 
gular charm.  Added  to  this  was  the  full  weight 
of  material  obligation  laid  upon  me  by  his  gen- 
erosity, of  moral  obligation  by  reason  of  my 
acceptance  of  it. 

I  knew  now  to  what  all  that  had  gone  before 
had  led.  The  net  had  tightened  about  me  now 
to  the  finish,  but  its  rose  mesh  was  indescriba- 
bly enthralling.  A  strange  subtle  suggestion 
flashed  through  my  mind  at  that  instant.  Did 
not  the  great  Sun-god  of  Egypt  joy  to  visit  Isis 
whom  he  loved  in  a  secret  room  of  the  ancient 
temple  of  Philae?  I  had  myself  planned  the 
building  of  the  famous  Philae  portal  below. 
Was  it  destined  to  be  the  portal  to  things  far 
beyond  my  dream,  my  desire  or  my  venture? 
What  was  it  which  was  coming  to  me  ?  Highest 
honor  or  deepest  shame?  I  felt  my  thought  be- 
coming confused.  My  womanhood  was  insulted 


[  2O3  ]  CHAP.  XVII 

indeed,  but  surely  never  was  insult  more  splen- 
did. I  had  played  with  fire  too  long,  and  now 
the  flames  seemed  visibly  to  enswathe  me.  I 
was  growing  faint,  and  as  the  faintness  crept 
over  me  I  recall  a  cold,  neutral  sense  as  of  esti- 
mating judicially  the  probabilities  of  the  work- 
ing of  this  coup  d'etat  upon  my  mind.  I  knew 
the  Lilith  side  of  my  nature.  Others  saw  it. 
When  I  should  be  going  down  from  this  mys- 
terious room  presently,  would  those  keys  be  in 
my  possession,  would  Boss  Kimball  hold  the 
promise  which  he  sought — the  promise  of  my 
return?  My  head  dropped  and  my  eyes  closed. 
I  felt  the  hand  which  fell  helpless  at  my  side 
caught  in  his  hand.  The  touch  startled  me  as  if 
it  had  been  fire.  Oh,  fool,  to  faint  now !  a  voice 
cried  within  in  self-scorn.  With  a  mighty  ef- 
fort I  rose,  stepped  back  a  pace,  and  resting  my 
arms  on  the  frame  of  the  chair  I  lifted  my  head 
and  confronted  Ross  Kimball  in  a  passion  of 
horror  and  loathing.  For  there  had  flashed 
upon  me  in  that  instant  the  hateful  sense  that  I 
was  to  be  bought,  bought  with  a  poor,  paltry 


CHAP.  XVII  [  2O4  ] 

show  of  material  magnificence,  bought  with  the 
greed  of  luxury,  bought  with  the  fear  of  falling 
fortune  for  my  husband,  with  the  dread  of  dis- 
grace for  myself,  tricked  into  a  glittering  trap 
for  lust's  sake,  not  swept  down  by  a  strong 
man's  honest,  overwhelming  love. 

Doubtless  to  the  man  before  me  the  price 
offered  for  a  woman's  soul  seemed  on  the  whole 
extravagantly  high.  But  it  was  not  high  enough. 
He  asked  the  supreme  sacrifice  of  a  woman's 
purity,  faith,  honor,  her  happiness  on  earth, 
her  hope  of  heaven,  the  most  precious  of  spir- 
itual essences, — and  for  this  he  was  ready  to 
barter  certain  material  commodities,  as  gold, 
silver,  and  precious  stones.  It  was  as  if  he  had 
said,  A  true  man's  heart  I  have  not,  but  silver 
and  gold  (such  as  I  have)  give  I  thee.  Could 
he  have  reversed  the  words  I  should  have  trem- 
bled indeed  before  him. 

I  think  perhaps,  though  it  might  be  hard  to 
explain  it,  my  deepest  sense  in  that  moment, 
deeper  than  shame  or  indignation,  was  a  sense 
of  relief,  disappointment.  The  foe  which  I  had 


[  3O5  ]  CHAP.  XVII 

sometimes  fearfully  fancied  myself  fighting, 
with  all  the  forces  which  Heaven  itself  could 
give  me,  suddenly  uncovered,  and  showed  itself 
a  mean  and  puny  thing. 

"  Mr.  Kimball,"  I  said  slowly,  "  you  have 
been  entirely  mistaken  in  me." 

"  Not  entirely,  I  think,"  he  said,  crossing  his 
arms  upon  his  breast,  a  lightly  satirical  touch 
in  his  tone.  "  I  have  studied  you  with  infinite 
care  and  infinite  entertainment.  You  are  not  a 
schoolgirl.  You  must  have  known  that  some- 
thing like  this  was  to  be  the  end." 

I  was  silent  for  a  few  seconds. 

"  I  wished  not  to  believe  it,"  I  said  very  low. 

"  What  do  you  suppose  the  world  believes  1 " 
he  asked,  with  the  cynical  gesture  of  brow  and 
shoulder  he  had  learned  in  Paris  along  with  so 
many  other  things  more  diabolical. 

I  trembled  from  head  to  foot,  but  at  that  mo- 
ment there  shot  through  my  frame  a  strange, 
even  violent  physical  sensation,  faintly  fore- 
shadowed indeed  in  the  days  just  passed,  but 
never  fully  felt  before.  In  the  familiar,  deeply 


CHAP.  XVII  [  2O6  ] 

significant  phrase,  I  "felt  life" — quickening. 
The  sensation  with  all  its  denotement  of  mater- 
nal hope,  its  firm  fetter  of  fidelity  to  the  man 
who  was  to  be  the  father  of  my  child,  nerved  me 
with  a  power  I  had  never  possessed  before.  I 
knew  that  I  was  safe.  I  knew  that  the  heart  of 
my  husband  could  safely  trust  in  me.  I  knew 
that  no  art  or  device  however  seductive,  how- 
ever terrible,  could  compass  now  my  ruin.  I 
seemed  to  grow  taller,  firmer,  prouder  and  yet 
more  humble. 

"  I  have  been  very  wrong ;  I  can  see  it  now," 
I  said  with  a  new  quietness,  "  but  it  has  not  been 
so  simple.  I  should  know  better  after  this.  The 
world  may  believe  what  it  will,  what  you  choose 
to  have  it.  I  shall  never,  willingly,  see  you 
again." 

With  this  I  turned  to  leave  the  room.  Ross 
Kimball  did  not  stir  from  his  place,  however, 
and  the  door  by  which  we  had  entered,  being 
closed,  had  become  indistinguishable. 

"  Is  this  your  final  word?  "  he  asked,  speak- 
ing low  and  with  peculiar  distinctness,  his  face 


[  2O7  ]  CHAP.  XVII 

even  paler  than  its  wont,  his  eyelids  drooping 
as  if  to  hide  their  light. 

"  It  is,"  I  said  solemnly. 

"  I  am  not  quite  through,  however,"  he  said 
with  an  assumed  carelessness,  slowly  drawing 
his  watch  by  its  fob  from  his  trousers  pocket 
and  glancing  at  it  coolly.  "  We  have  not  been 
in  this  room  five  minutes  yet.  We  can  have  two 
minutes  more  safely,  which  is  all  I  want." 

I  had  retreated  as  far  as  might  be,  and  stood 
now  hard  against  the  shining  mirror  of  the  wall. 

"  Very  well,"  I  said,  and  bent  my  head. 

"You  must  permit  me  to  say,"  he  began 
with  icy  politeness,  "  that  while  you  are  possi- 
bly at  this  moment  particularly  pleased  with 
yourself,  are  looking  upon  yourself  it  may  be 
as  something  of  a  heroine,  a  model  of  perse- 
cuted purity  and  that  kind  of  thing,  I  am  look- 
ing upon  you,  reluctantly,  it  is  true,  with  some- 
thing very  like  contempt." 

He  paused  a  moment  and  then  as  I  did  not 
speak  he  continued  with  the  same  air  of  studied, 
unimpassioned  fairness, 


CHAP.  XVII  [  208  ] 

"  Let  me  tell  you  why.  You  have  the  mind, 
the  soul  of  the  courtezan  without  her  courage. 
It  is  courage  which  fails  you  now,  not  principle 
which  guides  you.  Another  thing,  you  are  abso- 
lutely cold,  incapable  of  love.  If  you  really 
loved,  you  would  throw  your  body  into  the  scale 
to  win  your  lover  without  a  tremor.  But  that 
you  will  never  do,  because  you  will  never  forget 
yourself  in  a  'great  emotion." 

"  I  think  that  may  be  true,"  I  said  with  com- 
posure. 

"  I  despise  you  for  another  reason,  as  I  de- 
spise all  women  of  the  world  who  pride  them- 
selves on  their  virtue — because  you  are  a  hyp- 
ocrite. Notice,  if  you  will,  what  you  have  done, 
as  others  do.  You  uncover  your  body  to  the 
very  verge  of  decency,  you  furnish  it  then  with 
every  allurement  to  the  senses  conceivable,  of 
color,  of  fragrance,  of  texture,  and  thus  pre- 
pared you  give  yourself  into  a  man's  arms.  In 
this  guise  you  dance  with  him— motion,  contact, 
voluptuous  music  all  adding  their  effect.  What 
is  it  all  for?  For  the  express  purpose,  I  notice, 


[  2O9  ]  CHAP.  XVII 

of  arousing  the  sense  nature  in  the  man,  if  by 
any  chance  it  is  asleep  or  at  peace.  This  noble 
end  is  gained,  gained  easily.  Sense  awakes  and 
claims  its  natural  satisfaction.  But  upon  this 
you  retreat  shuddering  with  disgust,  amaze- 
ment, horror  at  the  man's  brutality.  This  you 
call  virtue." 

His  eyes  rested  now  full  upon  me  and 
scorched  me  with  their  withering  contempt.  My 
own  fell  before  them,  unable  to  sustain  their 
gaze.  The  man  was  more  formidable  even  than 
I  had  divined. 

Mr.  Kimball  advanced  then,  touched  a 
spring,  near  me  as  I  stood ;  a  part  of  the  mirror 
slid  back,  disclosing  the  door.  He  opened  it, 
bowing  me  out  with  formal  and  dignified  cour- 
tesy. But  in  the  very  instant  of  crossing  the 
threshold  a  swift  transition  passed  over  him. 
He  caught  my  hand  from  behind  as  he  followed 
me,  and  gently  drawing  me  back  bent  and 
pressed  his  lips  repeatedly  upon  my  shoulder, 
murmuring,  as  he  did  so, 

"  Forgive  me,  for  I  love  you.  If  you  did  but 
know  what  love  is ! " 

14 


CHAP.  XVII  [  310  ] 

The  light,  passionate  contact  of  his  lips  upon 
my  flesh  filled  me  with  a  fury  of  terror  and  dis- 
may. I  was  not  safe  after  all.  Perhaps  the 
worst  was  yet  to  come  after  my  sorry  victory 
had  been,  as  I  thought,  won.  Smothering  a  cry 
of  distress  I  broke  away  from  his  touch  and  flew 
down  the  stairs  just  before  me.  Blinded  and 
dizzy  with  fear  and  agitation  I  did  not  note  the 
first  landing,  and  so  missed  my  footing,  plun- 
ging violently  forward  against  the  iron  rail  op- 
posite, striking  my  side  with  extreme  force,  so 
that  for  a  moment  I  was  sure  a  rib  was  broken. 
I  clasped  my  hands  against  my  side,  conscious 
not  only  of  the  anguish  there  but  of  a  more  pro- 
found shock  and  sensation  throughout  my  body. 

Boss  Kimball  was  at  my  side  instantly,  well- 
bred  although  with  distant  concern  on  his  face. 

"How  unfortunate,"  he  said,  with  bitter 
irony,  "  and  yet  what  can  be  expected  when  In- 
nocence is  pursued  by  the  Devil  himself!  But 
are  you  hurt,  Mrs.  Lloyd?  " 

"  Oh,  it  is  nothing,"  I  answered  breathlessly, 
hastening  on  down  the  stairs.  "  Nothing  of  any 


]  CHAP.  XVII 

account.  Still,  I  believe  I  will  go  home.  I  will 
not  wait  for  my  husband." 

He  looked  keenly  in  my  face.  We  had 
reached  the  foot  of  the  stairs. 

"  By  all  means,"  he  said.  "  I  will  send  a  car- 
riage to  the  south  entrance  for  you.  You  will 
prefer  to  go  out  this  way."  He  advanced  now  to 
the  small  grade  door  which  opened  from  the  rear 
of  the  house,  and  laid  his  hand  upon  the  knob. 

"  Oh,  yes,  thank  you,"  I  said,  trembling  so 
violently  that  my  teeth  chattered  as  I  spoke. 
"  There  is  a  dressing-room  there?  " — then,  my 
voice  breaking  utterly  and  tears  like  a  child's 
coming  in  spite  of  me,  I  cried, 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Kimball,  I  am  so  cold ;  how  can  I 
get  my  cloak?  Tell  me  how  to  get  away  without 
seeing  people." 

We  stood  face  to  face  at  the  narrow  door, 
his  hand  upon  the  knob.  He  smiled.  The  irony 
of  the  situation  smote  upon  him  then  as  it  did 
not  upon  me  until  later. 

"  Directly  at  the  right  of  the  south  entrance 
you  will  find  a  small  anteroom  which  has  not 


CHAP.  XVH  [ 

been  used  to-night.  The  door,  however,  is  un- 
locked. Go  in  and  ring  the  bell  and  send  for 
your  cloak.  By  the  time  it  is  brought  to  you  the 
carriage  will  be  waiting.  Can  I  do  anything  for 
you?  I  would  accompany  you  if— 

"  Pray  do  not  think  of  it,"  I  murmured,  with 
a  gesture  of  unconscious  command.  He  opened 
the  door  obedient  to  it ;  I  stepped  out  on  the  dim 
terrace  and  heard  the  door  close  fast  behind  me. 
The  night  air  revived  my  failing  sense.  No 
one,  fortunately,  was  in  sight,  and  I  hurried  for- 
ward, almost  running  at  first  in  my  agitation, 
toward  the  great  porte-cochere  which,  outlined 
with  countless  electric  lights,  stood  out  boldly 
against  the  sky.  Just  before  I  came  within  the 
circle  of  its  brilliant  light  I  caught  sight  of  a 
man  pacing  slowly  to  and  fro  enjoying  a  soli- 
tary cigar,  for  I  caught  the  odor.  No  matter. 
I  moderated  my  speed.  Whoever  it  was  he 
could  hardly  have  seen  me  as  I  first  came  out. 
There  was  nothing  now  to  cause  especial  com- 
ment. I  would  pass  this  person  swiftly ;  he  need 
not  see  my  face. 


[  213  ]  CHAP.  XVII 

When  I  reached  the  spot,  however,  the  man 
had  stopped  his  pacing,  and  stood  as  if  to  inter- 
cept me.  To  my  surprise  I  saw  that  it  was  Dr. 
Kirke.  He  held  out  his  hand,  not  in  greeting, 
but  as  if  to  arrest  my  progress. 

"  Do  not  run  like  that,"  he  said  almost  curtly, 
then  paused,  took  a  contemplative  whiff  at  his 
cigar,  and  added,  "  And  do  not  dance  any 
more." 

That  was  all.  He  walked  on  then,  and  I 
hastened  forward  to  my  goal.  So  he  knew  a 
cause  for  caution  and  perhaps  had  known  all 
along ! 

I  found  the  small  anteroom  empty  as  prom- 
ised, entered,  closed  the  door  and  rang.  In  the 
brief  interval  which  succeeded  I  walked  to  a 
mantel  mirror  and  glanced  at  myself.  I  looked 
like  death,  my  face  gray,  drawn  and  haggard 
above  the  clasping  of  the  rose  and  pearls  of  my 
throat  band. 

"No  wonder  Boss  Kimball  did  not  choose 
to  be  met  walking  with  such  a  hunted  specter," 
I  thought,  unclasped  the  thing  from  my  throat 


CHAP.  XVII  [  214  ] 

and  let  it  fall  upon  the  mantel.  It  seemed  to 
suffocate  me.  I  looked  down  upon  the  gleaming 
folds,  the  delicate  embroidery  of  my  gown. 
Just  then  a  servant  came  and  I  gave  him  direc- 
tions to  find  and  bring  my  evening  wrap.  It 
was  a  long  coat  of  white  broadcloth  fitted  to 
button  from  neck  to  hem.  While  I  waited  I 
walked  rapidly  up  and  down  the  room  unfasten- 
ing loops  and  hooks  with  nervous  fingers.  Again 
the  servant  came.  I  took  my  coat  from  his 
hands  and  again  locked  the  door.  The  windows 
were  closely  guarded  by  shades  and  heavy 
drapery.  Then  with  feverish  haste,  my  eyes  on 
a  mantel  clock  which  showed  the  stroke  of 
twelve  almost  reached,  I  tore  the  beautiful, 
hateful  garment  off  from  my  body,  tossing  it 
with  unspeakable  loathing  far  from  me  over  a 
chair.  Then  I  slipped  into  my  own  coat,  but- 
toned it  carefully  to  the  very  feet  and  so  ha- 
stened from  the  room,  locking  the  door  after  me 
and  leaving  the  key  as  I  passed  upon  a  silver 
dish  I  chanced  to  see.  The  carriage  stood  wait- 
ing. The  great  hall  chimes  were  ringing  melo- 


[  315  ]  CHAP.  XVII 

diously  for  midnight  as  I  entered  it.  The  coach- 
man knew,  I  found,  where  he  was  to  go.  There 

were  three  miles  to  drive  to  reach  C .  I 

leaned  back  in  the  tufted-satin  seat,  and  the  car- 
riage rolled  smoothly  over  the  asphalt  drive — 
past  Dr.  Kirke  still  slowly  pacing  the  terrace. 

"  Kather  like  Cinderella,  all  this,"  I  thought, 
a  kind  of  dull  mechanical  triviality  playing  over 
the  abyss  of  my  pain  and  humiliation.  "  I  won- 
der if  the  carriage  will  last  until  I  get  home  to 
my  dust  and  ashes." 

My  soul  had  escaped  out  of  the  snare  of  the 
fowler ;  the  snare  was  broken  and  I  had  escaped, 
but  it  was  with  wings  bruised  and  spirit  laid 
waste. 


XVIII 

FOB  twenty-four  hours  I  fought  desperately 
alone  with  severe  bodily  suffering,  almost  glad, 
I  think,  to  have  in  this  effort  a  diversion  from 
my  profounder  pain.  Saturday  morning  I 
awoke  in  an  agony  of  mental  confusion  and 
apprehension.  I  could  no  longer  conceal  from 
myself  or  from  Irving  the  seriousness  of  my 
condition.  It  was  hardly  more  than  light  when 
Dr.  Kirke  came  into  my  room,  with  face  very 
grave,  even  stern,  and  sat  down  by  my  bedside. 
I  had  not  known  that  he  was  coming,  and  I 
turned  my  face  from  him  with  sudden  terror 
lest  he  had  in  some  way  learned  all  my  shame. 

I  remember  nothing  clearly  of  what  fol- 
lowed. I  slept  almost  continuously  until  Sun- 
day forenoon.  When  I  awoke  I  found  myself 
free  from  pain  and  my  head  clear ;  familiar  ob- 


]  CHAP.  XVIII 

jects  bore  their  natural  aspect;  familiar  actions 
seemed  again  possible.  For  a  space  I  even  for- 
got the  events  of  Thursday  night,  and  when 
again  I  saw  the  doctor  entering  the  room  I 
greeted  him  without  unusual  consciousness  or 
disturbance. 

He  sat  down  in  his  silent  fashion  beside  me 
and  took  my  hand,  studying  my  face  thought- 
fully. It  was  my  first  personal  encounter  with 
the  man  on  his  purely  professional  side.  His 
eye  and  voice  and  hand  I  found  gentler  than  any 
woman's,  but  behind  the  outer  aspect  of  him  I 
discerned  the  unrelenting  probing  of  his  mind 
to  the  center  of  things,  the  inflexible  purpose  to 
uncover  and  lay  bare  that  he  might  afterward 
soothe  and  heal.  Formerly  I  had  complained  of 
his  manners.  At  this  juncture  such  criticism 
seemed  as  lacking  in  pertinence  as  if  applied  to 
sun  or  wind.  I  felt  that  I  bore  for  the  time  at 
least  no  relation  whatever  to  him  save  that  of 
a  suffering  human  creature  whom  he  was  called 
upon  to  relieve.  My  personality,  .whether  win- 
ning to  him  or  detestable,  was  for  the  time  non- 


CHAP.  XVIII  [  318  ] 

existent,  save  as  his  knowledge  of  it  bore  upon 
his  diagnosis.  Nevertheless,  as  he  simply  sat 
at  my  side,  his  hand  resting  for  a  little  while 
upon  my  wrist,  his  eyes  fixed  with  their  search- 
ing but  soothing  directness  upon  my  face,  I  un- 
derstood suddenly  the  remarkable  influx  of 
vigor  and  repose  which  Irving  had  always  re- 
ceived from  his  visits  during  his  various  ill- 
nesses. I  should  rather  say,  I  felt  the  same 
thing  in  myself.  I  understood  the  psychic 
causes  of  it  even  less  than  before. 

"  You  are  better,  and  I  hope  you  have  now 
escaped  the  great  risk  you  ran  into,"  he  said 
briefly,  smiling  slightly  at  the  energy  of  my 
movements.  "When  he  released  my  wrist  I  had 
clasped  both  hands  together  and  thrown  them 
with  a  movement  habitual  to  me  above  my  head. 
"  That  is  not  a  good  thing  to  do,  just  now, 
though." 

I  looked  up  at  him  with  surprise  and  ques- 
tion in  my  eyes,  then  with  a  child's  instant  docil- 
ity drew  my  arms  down  and  let  them  lie  deco- 
rously at  my  sides. 


[  219  ]  CHAP.  XVIII 

"  I  don't  know  how  to  behave,"  I  said  meekly. 
"  I  have  always  been  ridiculously  well." 

"  So  I  see.  Probably  that  is  one  reason  why 
you  have  not  been  awake  to  the  need  of  taking 
better  care  of  yourself  lately." 

My  eyes  fell. 

"I  have  tried  to  be  careful,"  I  murmured 
hesitatingly. 

Dr.   Kirke    shook  his   head.   Then   he   said 
gently, 

"  I  saw  on  Thursday  night  that  you  were 
running  a  serious  risk  in  the  way  you  dressed. 
Probably  no  one  not  professional  would  have 
suspected  your  condition.  That  was  all  wrong 
— all  wrong,"  he  repeated  with  a  touch  of  se- 
verity. 

I  pressed  my  lips  together  rebelliously  and 
felt  that  I  hated  this  man  worse  now  than  when 
I  saw  him  first. 

"I  saw,  too,  that  you  danced  a  good  deal, 
danced  several  dances  in  succession — the  mo- 
tion was  sustained  for  a  considerable  time.  Did 
you  not  know  the  danger  this  might  bring  upon 
you?" 


CHAP.  XVIII  [  22O  ] 

I  shook  my  head.  What  right  had  he  to  be 
watching  everything  I  did  Thursday  night? 

"  You  see  what  it  did  bring  upon  you,"  he 
remarked  quietly.  I  did  not  reply,  but  tapped 
the  coverlet  impatiently  with  my  finger-tips. 
He  was  all  astray,  but  I  could  not  tell  him  so. 

"  Mrs.  Lloyd,  you  will  pardon  me,  but  the 
question  could  hardly  fail  to  rise  in  my  mind 
last  night  whether  you  were  not  willing  to  run 
this  risk,  as  many  women  unhappily  are,"  and 
his  eyes  searched  mine  with  unrelenting  serious- 
ness. "  If  this  was  the  case  I  must  insist  upon 
knowing  it,  and  I  must  ask  you  to  employ  an- 
other physician." 

I  returned  his  look,  my  eyes  unswerving, 
flashing  a  reply  half  frank,  half  fierce,  wholly 
indignant. 

"  You  are  cruel,  cruel !  "  I  exclaimed.  "  I 
never  wanted  anything  so  much  as  I  want  my 
baby ;  I  may  be  very  bad,  but  I  have  a  little  good 
grain  too !  "  and  with  that  I  burst  into  passion- 
ate weeping. 

"  It  was  not  my  fault,  it  was  not  what  you 


[  221  ]  CHAP.  XVIII 

think,"  I  wailed  piteously.  "  It  was  not  the  dan- 
cing or — the  other — "  and  remembering  with 
sudden  vividness  the  physical  shock  I  had  re- 
ceived, and  under  what  circumstances,  a  long 
shuddering  sob  broke  from  me. 

Dr.  Kirke  placed  one  hand  upon  my  fore- 
head, with  the  other  smoothing  my  hands  with 
a  firm,  gentle  motion.  Instantly  I  became  per- 
fectly calm. 

"  There,  there,"  he  said  with  incredible  ten- 
derness, "  it  is  all  right.  You  are  a  good  girl, 
and  you  shall  be  taken  good  care  of.  I  will  not 
scold  you  any  more.  You  have  had  your  lesson. 
Keep  perfectly  still  now  for  twenty-four  hours, 
and  I  will  see  you  to-morrow." 

For  three  days  I  appeared  to  improve,  al- 
though I  thought  I  saw  that  the  Doctor  was 
somewhat  troubled,  not  perfectly  satisfied.  On 
Wednesday  night  Irving  went  for  him  in  hot 
haste.  I  was  violently  ill. 

Throughout  the  night  the  Doctor,  to  my 
feverish  fancy,  seemed  to  hold  in  his  hand  thun- 
derbolts of  pain  which  he  darted  into  my  frame 


CHAP.  XVIII  [  222  ] 

in  a  steady,  remorseless  rhythm  of  inconceiv- 
able agony.  I  was  sure  the  wielding  of  that  tor- 
ture was  all  in  his  hands. 

Quiet  came  at  sunrise  and  with  it  the  death 
of  my  hope.  They  were  all  pitiful  and  kind,  but 
I  begged  them  all  to  go  and  leave  me,  for  my 
heart  I  thought  was  broken. 

My  recovery  was  prompt  and  natural  and 
the  Doctor's  attendance  ceased  almost  at  once. 
Fixed  between  us  lay  my  weak  but  passionate 
resentment  that  he  believed  me  by  my  vanity 
and  lightmindedness  verily  guilty  for  the  loss 
of  my  child.  In  a  far  deeper  sense  I  knew  I  was 
touched  by  this  taint,  but  I  chose  to  cherish  this 
superficial  vexation  regarding  his  misunder- 
standing, the  better  to  cloak  to  myself  my  mor- 
tal pain. 


XIX 

WHEN  three  weeks  had  passed  I  was  able  to 
move  about  the  house  again,  and  I  had  ceased 
to  be  interesting,  as  far  as  my  physical  condi- 
tion was  concerned,  even  to  my  husband  and  my 
nurse.  Miss  Webster  had  come  to  us  immedi- 
ately upon  my  being  taken  ill.  Irving  left  home 
for  a  business  expedition  to  the  West.  Miss 
Webster  began  to  talk  of  leaving,  but  we  per- 
suaded her  to  remain  during  Irving's  absence 
that  I  might  not  be  left  alone. 

All  the  while  I  knew  that  I  was  less  perfectly 
recovered  than  appeared.  Not  for  one  moment 
had  the  pain  ceased  in  my  bruised  side  since 
that  night  of  horror.  There  were  times  when  it 
became  excruciating,  but  always  I  kept  it  reso- 
lutely to  myself.  What  if  it  should  by  any 
chance  become  known  to  Dr.  Kirke?  I  had  a 


CHAP.  XIX  [  224:  ] 

conviction  that  if  this  happened  the  corroding 
shame  which  defiled  my  memory  could  not  es- 
cape his  searching  eyes.  From  this  I  shrank 
supremely  and  I  hid  my  pain  with  a  ferocity  of 
determination,  hoping  against  hope  that  it 
would  gradually  leave  me.  Sometimes  I  hoped 
that  it  would  swiftly  kill  me,  but  that  I  reflected 
bitterly  would  be  more  merciful  than  life  and 
death  as  I  had  found  them. 

The  day  after  Irving  left  it  seemed  for  a  few 
hours  as  if  all  my  painful  concealment  had  been 
in  vain.  I  had  a  sharp  chill,  followed  by  a  very 
high  temperature  and  intense  headache.  In 
spite  of  my  protests  and  persuasions,  the  nurse 
sent  for  Dr.  Kirke.  He  questioned  me  very 
closely  and  seemed  to  ponder  my  condition  with 
troubled  and  even  perplexed  seriousness.  I 
treated  the  whole  matter  as  lightly  as  possible, 
answered  all  his  questions  as  briefly  as  I  could 
and  insisted  peevishly  that  the  attack  must  be 
malarial — I  knew  it  was  precisely  like  illnesses 
Irving  had  had  when  a  little  quinine  and  care 
had  pulled  him  out  in  short  order. 


[  225  ]  CHAP.  XIX 

The  Doctor  rose  after  I  had  thus  delivered 
myself.  With  quiet  emphasis  he  said  to  me, 

"  Do  not  carry  this  too  far."  Then,  remark- 
ing that  under  the  circumstances  he  could  not 
prescribe,  he  left  with  a  curt  good-by.  He  per- 
ceived my  lack  of  frankness  plainly.  I  saw  that 
he  did  and  was  the  more  afraid  of  him. 

The  next  day,  after  a  sleepless  night,  I  per- 
sisted in  rising  and  dressing  myself  in  a  house 
gown  without  the  nurse's  assistance.  Having 
had  breakfast  in  my  room  I  came  down  to  the 
library  at  ten  o'clock  and  went  straight  to  my 
desk.  With  all  the  nerve  and  control  which  I 
could  rally  I  forced  myself  to  sit  erect  and  to 
write  without  perceptible  trembling  in  my  hand 
the  note  I  had  determined  to  send  to  the  Doctor. 
It  told  him  briefly  and  formally  that  I  was  quite 
myself,  dressed  and  about  the  house,  and  that 
it  would  be  unnecessary  for  him  to  take  the  time  • 
from  his  pressing  engagements  to  call  upon  me 
again.  I  regretted  that  the  nurse  had  troubled 
him  on  so  slight  an  occasion,  etc. 

Having  despatched  this  note  (of  which  I  did 

15 


CHAP.  XIX  [  226  ] 

not  choose  Miss  Webster  to  have  knowledge)  by 
special  messenger  to  Dr.  Kirke's  house,  I  moved 
restlessly  about  my  hall  and  library.  I  was  bent 
on  galvanizing  myself  into  energy,  on  forcing 
upon  myself  oblivion  of  my  bodily  anguish.  I 
paused  before  the  open  book-shelves  with  which 
the  room  was  lined.  Why  not  read  ?  I  had  al- 
ways been  able  to  divert  myself  with  books  in 
the  small  ailments  I  had  hitherto  known.  At 
random  I  drew  a  book  from  the  selves  and  flut- 
tered its  leaves  over  with  hot  and  trembling 
hand.  My  eye  caught  a  startling  heading  in 
large  print  over  a  page:  "How  Love  Looked 
for  Hell."  I  tried  to  read  and  discern  the  mean- 
ing but  it  was  dim  to  me.  But  on  the  same  page 
I  found  the  following  and  this  I  read  with  swift, 
eager  eyes  to  the  last  word : — 

"  Thou  Ship  of  Earth,  with  Death,  and  Birth  and  Life 

and  Sex  aboard. 

And  fires  of  Desires  burning  hotly  in  the  hold, 
I  fear  thee,  0!  I  fear  thee,  for  I  hear  the  tongue  and 

Sword 
At  battle  on  the  deck,  and  the  wild  mutineers  are  bold. 


[  237  ]  CHAP.  XIX 

"  The  dewdrop  morn  may  fall  from  off  the  petal  of  the  sky, 
But  all  the  deck  is  wet  with  blood  and  stains  the 

crystal  red. 

A  pilot,  God,  a  pilot !  for  the  helm  is  left  awry, 
And  the  best  sailors  in  the  ship  lie  there  among  the 
dead!11 


What  did  the  man  mean  who  wrote  it?  What 
did  it  mean  to  me  who  read  it?  I  could  not  have 
told,  but  I  felt  the  answer  to  both  questions, 
dimly,  inarticulately.  It  troubled  me,  and  I 
tossed  the  book  away  with  a  little  groan  and 
clasped  my  hands  hard  against  my  side.  What 
was  this  clutching,  tearing  thing  with  beak  and 
talons  which  I  called  pain?  If  I  called  it  pleas- 
ure would  it  not  serve  as  well  ?  What  was  pain 
— what  was  pleasure?  Why  could  I  not  make 
use  of  the  theories  of  Christian  Science?  Pain 
was  not ;  fever  was  not.  I  was  in  perfect  health 
if  I  would  but  believe  so.  Neither  was  there 
any  sin.  Evil  was  only  delusion.  What  then  of 
the  facts  burned  into  my  consciousness  and 
burning  there  unceasingly?  Were  they  too  de- 
lusion? Was  that  room  with  its  seductive  re- 


CHAP.  XIX  [  228  ] 

finement  of  beauty  only  a  mirage,  a  fevered 
dream?  What  of  Boss  Kimball? — his  terrible 
tenderness,  his  scorching  passion,  his  lips  upon 
my  shoulder,  the  shafts  of  his  scorn  piercing  my 
heart?  Were  these  all  may  a,  may  a?  Oh,  if  that 
could  only  be  true !  But  if  all  these  were  delu- 
sion I  too  was  a  delusion,  a  burning,  throbbing, 
demoniacal,  delirious  nothing,  and  nothing  was 
but  what  was  not!  I  laughed  aloud  and  knew 
the  sound  of  my  laughing  was  weird  and  gro- 
tesque. 

Perhaps  Boss  Kimball  himself  was  a  delu- 
sion. Certainly  no  sign  or  token  of  any  sort 
whatsoever  had  reached  me  of  his  existence 
since  that  Thursday  night.  I  wondered  idly  if 
he  had  discovered  the  Carlier  gown  and  the  or- 
naments where  I  had  left  them ;  if  he  had  taken 
them  on  his  own  arm  and  carried  them  up  that 
steep  iron  stair  and  laid  them  in  the  still  beauty 
of  that  shameful  room.  I  could  see  him  enter  it. 
The  hyacinths  and  roses  would  be  drooping.  The 
lustrous  trailing  garment  would  again  be  re- 
flected in  the  mirror,  but  its  folds  would  hang 


[  229  ]  CHAP.  XIX 

limp  and  lifeless.  The  panel  thus  made  would 
not  have  the  artistic  effect  for  which  he  had  so 
carefully  striven,  when  a  warm,  living  woman, 
passion  pale,  her  firm,  rounded  limbs  caressed 
by  its  folds,  should  have  been  reflected  there! 
How  well  I  discerned  all  that  had  been  in  his 
refined  epicurean  fancy.  He  had  prepared  a  po- 
tent spell  for  flesh  and  sense ;  he  had  looked  to  be 
drunk  with  beauty,  exhilarated  with  conquest — 
and  this  was  the  end — spurning  and  mockery 
and  hard  hate :  an  empty  room,  an  empty  gown. 
Did  the  keys  which  were  to  have  been  mine  still 
lie  on  the  marquetry  table?  What  would  he  do 
with  the  Boldini  now?  Perhaps  the  woman 
whom  he  chose  next  would  like  it;  but  many 
people  did  not  fancy  it  overmuch.  I  could  see 
him  now  as  he  turned  from  the  room.  The  mir- 
ror slipped  back  to  its  place,  the  door  swung  to 
on  its  hinges  and  shut  fast.  He  was  coming 
down  the  stairs  and  where  the  insolence  of  con- 
fident anticipation  had  been  beating  in  his  brain 
the  poison  of  hate  and  revenge  were  working 
now.  What  would  their  working  be  1  Cruel  as 


CHAP.  XIX  [  23O  ] 

the  grave,  that  I  knew,  but  subtle  and  studied 
after  the  man's  fashion.  Should  I  ever  see  him 
again?  and  would  he  caress  me  with  his  eyes 
before  he  killed  me1?  For  of  course  he  would 
kill  me — in  soul,  in  spirit,  if  not  in  body.  Per- 
haps he  had  killed  me  already. 

In  my  pacing  of  the  library  I  had  come  back 
to  the  fireplace  and  now  stood  on  the  hearth- 
rug, beside  Irving's  great-chair,  on  the  spot 
where  Koss  Kimball  had  stood  when  I  first  saw 
him.  Again  I  seemed  to  see  him  bodily  before 
me,  distinguished,  graceful,  ironical,  with  that 
mysterious  appeal  of  his  to  the  nerves  which 
set  them  all  in  vibration.  Something  passed 
through  me  like  an  electric  shock.  I  seemed  to 
myself  paralyzed.  Instinctively  I  put  out  my 
hand  and  touched  the  arm  of  the  chair  to  find 
if  I  could  feel  it — it  seemed  far  away.  Chairs 
too  were  delusions  then — all  was  maya,  yes,  all. 
Then  I  fell  unconscious. 

When  I  came  to  myself  I  was  lying  on  the 
broad  leather-covered  library  lounge,  and  the 
nurse  was  moistening  my  lips  with  some  pun- 


[331]  CHAP.  XIX 

gent  drug.  I  looked  at  her  and  instantly  remem- 
bered everything. 

"  Whatever  you  do,  whatever  happens  to 
me,"  I  articulated  distinctly  but  with  difficulty, 
"  do  not  send  for  Dr.  Kirke." 

"  I  have  not  sent  for  him,"  she  whispered ; 
"  but  he  is  here." 

Then  I  saw  that  some  one  stood  behind  her, 
and  Dr.  Kirke  pushed  her  gently  away  and  bent 
over  me.  He  did  not  speak.  What  did  he  mean 
to  do?  He  seemed  to  be  unfastening  the  front 
of  my  dress;  it  had  already  been  loosened  and 
laid  back  from  my  neck  while  I  had  been  uncon- 
scious. Dark  reddish  streaks  had  thus  become 
visible  raying  upward  from  the  inflammation 
below. 

"What  are  you  doing? "  I  whispered,  look- 
ing up  into  his  face  with  frightened  eyes  and 
pushing  feebly  at  his  hands. 

"Be  quiet,"  he  said  not  unkindly,  but  in  a 
way  which  told  me  it  was  useless  to  struggle 
against  him.  "  There  is  trouble  here.  Turn  if 
you  please  on  the  left  side,"  and  with  the  words 


CHAP.  XIX  [232] 

he  himself  moved  me  as  if  I  had  been  a  child. 
With  sure  and  steady  hands  he  drew  or  cut 
away  my  inner  clothing,  asked  the  nurse  for 
more  light  from  the  nearest  window,  and  then 
sent  her  for  a  bowl  of  hot  water,  antiseptics  and 
linen  cloths. 

I  tried  weakly  to  turn,  to  push  him  away,  to 
rearrange  my  clothing.  I  was  frightened,  de- 
fiant, maddened  almost  that  he  had  discovered 
my  secret,  but  most  of  all  I  was  powerless.  His 
hand,  strong,  unyielding,  albeit  gentle,  held  me 
fast.  He  spoke  in  the  most  matter-of-fact  man- 
ner, an  undertone  of  easy  habitual  control  just 
perceptible. 

"  It  is  necessary,  Mrs.  Lloyd,  to  lance  this 
abscess  which  is  making  you  so  much  trouble, 
without  delay.  It  is  not  safe  to  neglect  it  for 
another  hour.  Have  I  your  permission?" 

"  Yes,"  I  said  with  defiant  coldness.  "  I  do 
not  care  what  you  do  now,  Dr.  Kirke." 

"  That  is  right.    That  is  all  we  want." 

I  heard  steps.  The  door  opened.  Miss  Web- 
ster returned. 


[  233  ]  CHAP.  XIX 

"  I  will  ask  you  to  hold  Mrs.  Lloyd's  hands," 
the  Doctor  said  in  an  undertone  with  a  swift  ges- 
ture. She  obeyed,  coming  to  the  opposite  side 
of  the  lounge  and  kneeling  with  an  anxious, 
pitying  face  beside  me.  Then  I  closed  my  eyes, 
hopeless  of  further  resistance.  Scalding  tears 
flowed  down  my  cheeks,  but  I  held  my  body 
motionless. 

Then  followed  the  poignant  darting  pang  of 
the  lancet  which  I  bore  without  a  tremor.  The 
nurse  bent  then  and  kissed  my  bare  arm  as  it 
lay  across  her  white  apron.  I  could  feel  her 
tears.  She  loved  me. 

The  Doctor  worked  over  the  wound  for  a  few 
painful  moments  more  with  his  skilled  but  un- 
sparing touch;  then  the  soft  coolness  of  the 
smooth  linen  bandages,  firmly,  swiftly  drawn, 
succeeded;  he  turned  me  gently  to  an  easier 
position  and  the  physical  ordeal  was  over. 

"  What  right  had  you? "  I  murmured,  flash- 
ing still  unquenched  defiance  through  my  tears, 
and  the  desperation  of  my  weakness.  "  I  wrote 
to  you  not  to  come." 


CHAP.  XIX  [  334  ] 

He  looked  at  me  with  a  smile  of  genuine 
amusement. 

"  It  was  too  bad,  was  it  not?  I  received  the 
note  and  wondered  how  much  longer  you  would 
hold  out.  Unluckily,  we  doctors  have  to  take  an 
oath  to  save  people's  lives  if  we  can,  even  when 
they  don't  want  us  to." 

Then  he  followed  the  nurse  out  of  the  room 
to  wash  his  hands.  When  he  returned  I  was 
quite  calm  and  already  easier.  The  Doctor 
stood  by  the  table  and  looked  over  at  me  with  a 
musing  half-smile  on  his  face. 

"  Mrs.  Lloyd,"  he  said,  with  slow,  peculiar 
emphasis,  "you  have  any  amount  of  grit  and 
of  sense,  as  you  have  shown  just  now  and  often 
before.  How  does  it  happen  that  you  can  act 
like — pardon  me !  to  put  it  moderately — a  con- 
genital idiot? "  the  words  were  spoken  with  a 
whimsical  cadence  which  saved  them  from 
harshness. 

"  What  do  you  mean?  "  I  asked  simply,  feel- 
ing much  less  vindictive  than  a  few  minutes  be- 
fore. 


[  335  ]  CHAP.  XIX 

"  You  have  received  a  serious  injury  on 
your  side  which  has  resulted  in  this  gathering. 
It  happened  several  weeks  ago,  I  perceive.  It 
has  been  criminally  neglected.  Why?" 

"  For  a  reason  that  I  can  never  explain  to 
you  or  to  any  other  person,"  I  said  after  a  pain- 
ful pause. 

There  was  a  long  silence,  broken  only  by 
a  choking  sob  now  and  then  which  I  could  not 
perfectly  suppress.  I  lifted  my  eyes  at  last. 
Dr.  Kirke  was  looking  down  upon  me  as  I 
lay  in  my  piteous  weakness  with  a  grave 
compassion  which  softened  his  face  to  tender- 
ness. 

"  You  do  not  need  to,  poor  child,"  and  as  he 
spoke  he  stepped  nearer  and  placed  his  hand 
not  on  my  forehead,  but  on  my  head  as  if  in  ab- 
solving benediction.  In  another  moment  he  was 
gone. 

But  in  that  simple  action  the  Doctor  had  con- 
veyed to  me  a  sense  that,  whatever  had  been  or 
was  yet  to  be,  he  mysteriously  comprehended 
the  nature  of  my  suffering,  the  sin-sickness 


CHAP.  XIX  [  236  ] 

which  lay  upon  me  so  heavily,  and  that  in 
spite  of  all  he  believed  in  me.  I  knew  that  his 
faith  once  bestowed  was  impregnable.  I  knew 
that  I  had  found  a  friend.  I  took  courage  to 
believe  a  very  little  in  myself. 


IRVING  returned  from  the  West  and  settled 
into  his  ordinary  routine  of  work,  hopeful  of 
brilliant  results  from  his  association  with  Eoss 
Kimball's  building  operation.  Upon  the  in- 
dorsement and  recommendation  of  the  great 
financier  he  felt  his  future  in  large  measure  to 
depend. 

I  soon  began  to  recover  rapidly,  but  I  was 
obliged  to  retain  my  nurse,  Miss  Webster,  to 
dress  the  wound  in  my  side.  The  Doctor  looked 
in  now  and  then  to  make  sure  that  all  was  right. 
Sarah  Kirke  came  often  to  see  me  and  treated 
me  with  a  certain  imperative,  motherly  kind- 
ness. I  awoke  shortly  to  the  fact  that  she  was 
the  only  person  who  did  visit  me.  Mine  had 
been  a  long  and  painful  and  disastrous  illness, 
but  as  I  looked  back  I  suddenly  became  aware 
that  after  the  first  week  not  a  soul,  save  a  neigh- 


CHAP.  XX  [  238  ] 

bor  or  two,  no  one  in  fine  from  my  proper  world, 
had  been  near  me,  had  so  much  as  sent  me  a  mes- 
sage, a  note  or  a  flower.  And  in  our  world  we 
did  so  much  of  that  kind  of  thing!  My  rector 
had  not  even  inquired  at  my  door,  so  far  as  I 
could  hear;  and  where  was  his  wife,  my, com- 
panion in  the  Paris  days,  my  most  obliging  and 
altogether  unconscious  decoy  bird?  The  same, 
I  found  on  reflection,  was  true  of  her. 

The  autumn  weather  was  fine  that  year.  I 
began  to  go  out  a  little,  walking  slowly,  and  not 
quite  steadily  at  first  in  the  nearest  park.  No 
one  invited  me  to  drive,  although  most  of  my 
friends  kept  horses.  Occasionally  I  met  ac- 
quaintances. They  stopped  and  spoke  with  me 
politely,  and  I  detected  curiosity  at  least  in  their 
concern,  but  I  felt  something  of  constraint,  even 
of  uneasiness  in  their  manner.  Moreover,  they 
were  always  on  their  way  to  some  very  imme- 
diate appointment.  I  would  return  with  a  dull 
and  leaden  weight  on  my  spirit,  would  be  grate- 
ful to  my  nurse  for  liking  to  be  with  me,  and 
would  seek  to  interest  myself  in  the  old  vivid 


[  339  ]  CHAP.  XX 

fashion,  in  making  and  keeping  my  house  shin- 
ing and  beautiful.  But  there  seemed  so  little 
motive  now.  No  one  ever  came  to  see  us  any 
more,  and  Irving  was  always  preoccupied  I 
found  in  those  days,  unresponsive  and  unob- 
servant. He  looked  careworn,  hollow-cheeked 
and  blue-lipped.  Sometimes  I  would  ask  him 
questions  regarding  his  professional  work, 
thinking  he  might  be  missing  my  participation. 
I  was  not  strong  yet,  but  I  could  begin  a  little 
on  the  old  lines  again  and  perhaps  it  would  do 
me  good.  However,  he  always  turned  me  off 
with  some  colorless  excuse  which  I  dimly  felt 
covered  something  like  resentment  at  the  sug- 
gestion that  he  could  need  my  help.  I  began  to 
surmise  that  there  was  very  little  to  help  about, 
the  rather  as  his  old,  almost  forgotten  habit 
of  fretting  and  petty  nagging  about  trifles 
of  household  and  personal  expense  returned 
strangely  upon  him,  adding  to  the  cheerlessness 
of  the  situation.  He  let  me  know  plainly  after 
a  little  that  he  considered  it  a  reckless  piece  of 
extravagance  to  keep  the  nurse  when  I  was  so 


CHAP.  XX  [  240  ] 

far  recovered.  I  dismissed  her  promptly  and 
thereafter  I  was  left  to  sit  day  after  day  in  my 
silent  house  and  brood  over  the  swift  punish- 
ment meted  out  to  one  who  was  bold  enough  to 
thwart  Ross  Kimball's  cherished  purposes.  No 
human  being  but  himself  could  guess  the  travail 
of  my  spirit  in  any  degree.  He,  least  of  all,  per- 
haps, could  have  understood  its  deeps.  The 
pain  of  this  social  ostracism  was  but  the  faint 
reflex  of  the  awful  sense  of  defiled  womanhood 
which  I  had  borne  within  since  that  night. 

But  worse  was  to  follow.  One  morning 
while  I  walked  alone  in  the  park  with  slow,  aim- 
less feet,  quick  steps  came  behind  me  and  a  man 
I  knew  very  slightly  in  the  fashionable  world, 
by  name  Mortimer  Masson,  overtook  me  and 
walked  beside  me.  This  man,  known  for  a 
worthless,  contemptible  degenerate,  was  tole- 
rated in  society  because  his  family  was  one  of 
Colonial  distinction,  one  of  the  oldest  in  the  com- 
monwealth, and  he  still  clung  to  a  remnant  of 
what  had  been  a  considerable  fortune.  The  man 
had  always  been  odious  to  me.  I  had  shunned 


[  241  ]  CHAP.  XX 

him  invariably  from  the  first  time  I  met  him, 
but  he  had  contrived  to  maintain  a  bare  bowing 
acquaintance  with  me,  never  more.  On  this  oc- 
casion I  was  struck  immediately  by  a  change  in 
his  bearing  toward  me.  He  greeted  me  with 
confident  familiarity,  and  as  we  walked  on  I  felt 
his  eyes  resting  on  my  face  with  a  flattery  of 
scarcely  disguised  insolence.  I  sought  to  hurry 
on  and  escape,  but  this  was  obviously  impossible, 
as  a  long,  unbroken  path  extended  before  us  and 
the  park  must  be  traversed  and  a  wide  square 
'crossed  before  I  could  win  my  own  door. 

Masson  began  at  once  to  enlarge  upon  the 
hardship  my  prolonged  absence  had  caused  my 
admirers ;  I  had  hardly  been  seen  since  the  Kim- 
ball  affair;  what  a  thoroughly  vulgar,  parvenu 
show  it  had  been,  by  the  way !  These  self-made 
men  were  all  insufferable.  They  thought  they 
could  buy  everything,  but  blood  and  breeding 
were  not  commercial  commodities.  No  woman 
of  taste  could  tolerate  a  man  of  that  stamp  very 
long.  That  he  could  understand  perfectly.  Then 
followed  a  torrent  of  fulsome  flattery  of  my  ap- 

16 


CHAP.  XX  [  242  ] 

pearance  on  that  night,  which  lasted  until  we 
came  in  sight  of  my  own  house,  when  he  saluted 
me  with  exaggerated  gallantry  and  walked  away. 

That  day  I  ate  no  food.  Hour  after  hour  I 
spent  in  tasting  instead  the  bitter  flavor  of  the 
cup  pressed  to  my  lips  to  drink.  Surely  worse 
than  this  could  not  be. 

So  I  sat  alone  with  my  wordless  wretched- 
ness when  in  the  afternoon  Irving  came  home 
in  the  early  twilight,  earlier  than  his  wont.  I 
was  surprised  that  he  did  not  presently  come 
into  the  library  to  greet  me.  I  heard  him  go 
up-stairs,  and  when  half  an  hour  had  passed  I 
followed  and  found  him  lying  on  a  sofa  near  the 
fireplace  in  the  wide  upper  hall.  There  was 
neither  fire  nor  light. 

"  Why,  my  dear ! "  I  exclaimed,  with  a  deter- 
mined effort  to  appear  myself,  my  heart  crying 
out  for  a  look  and  word  of  tenderness  from  him, 
"  the  idea  of  your  staying  up  here  in  the  dark ! 
Let  me  build  up  the  fire  and  we  will  have  a  cozy 
twilight  talk  together.  You  came  home  early, 
didn't  you?" 


[  243  ]  CHAP.  XX 

"  I  hope  you  will  not  build  a  fire,  Sidney," 
Irving  replied  with  icy  gloom.  "  You  know,  I 
suppose,  how  expensive  wood  is.  At  least  let  us 
save  unnecessary  expenses.  We  have  got  to  cut 
down  somewhere." 

"  Yes,  certainly,  Irving.  I  am  sorry  I  for- 
got. Are  you  quite  well,  dear? "  and  with  this 
I  drew  a  footstool  up  by  the  sofa  and  sat  down, 
drawing  his  hand  between  my  own. 

"  As  well  as  usual,  I  believe,"  he  said  briefly. 

He  left  his  hand  lying  in  mine,  but  without 
the  faintest  response  of  touch  or  pressure.  I 
might  as  well  have  held  his  glove.  There  was 
absolute  silence.  Stirred  by  his  peculiarly  im- 
passive gloom  I  said  at  length, 

"  Would  you  rather  I  would  go  away,  Ir- 
ving? " 

"  I  do  not  know  that  I  care  particularly,"  he 
replied  coldly  after  a  pause  of  some  seconds. 

I  rose  then,  deeply  hurt,  and  went  to  my  own 
room.  The  deck-chair  I  had  brought  home  with 
me  from  the  Lucania  stood  always  under  my 
window.  In  it  I  lay  in  the  chill  and  darkness 


CHAP.  XX  [  244  ] 

alone  for  an  hour,  wondering  what  new  turn  the 
wheel  of  torture  was  to  take. 

The  next  day  it  was  the  same,  and  the  day 
after.  Each  day  Irving  confronted  me  with  the 
same  haggard,  careworn  countenance,  the  stark 
gloom  in  his  eyes,  the  bitter  compression  of  his 
lips,  the  invariable  cold  repulse  to  my  efforts  at 
sympathy  and  understanding.  I  should  have 
thought  that  a  supreme  inner  suffering  would 
have  made  me  less  sensitive  to  outward  sources 
of  depression,  but  I  did  not  find  it  so.  Every 
night  I  lay  awake  in  nameless  apprehension, 
feeling  all  the  fabric  of  our  life  and  of  our  home 
crumbling  down  about  us,  with  lover  and  friend 
put  far  from  me,  and  nowhere  help  or  hope. 

I  was  still  far  from  strong  and  my  nerves 
had  been  profoundly  shaken.  On  the  fourth 
day  Irving  appeared  earlier  than  on  previous 
days  and  walked  into  the  upper  room  where  I 
sat  in  a  long  white  wrapper — my  side  still 
troubled  me — trying  to  embroider  a  poor  bit  of 
drapery  which  I  loathed.  When  I  saw  on  his 
face  the  same  grim,  desperate  darkness,  deeper 


[  245  ]  CHAP.  XX 

it  seemed  to  me  than  ever,  I  realized  that  the 
climax  was  reached,  for  I  could  bear  no  more. 

"  Irving ! "  I  cried,  with  piercing  earnest- 
ness, "  tell  me  what  is  the  matter  or  I  shall  be 
insane.  You  are  killing  me,  dear,  by  the  way 
you  treat  me.  "Whatever  has  happened,  let  me 
know  it,  let  us  bear  it  together." 

"  Perhaps  it  would  be  better  if  we  were  both 
dead,"  he  replied  with  sullen  hardness. 

I  rose  from  my  reclining  chair  and  stepped 
toward  him.  My  spirit  was  roused  at  last  and  I 
faced  him  without  fear  or  flinching. 

"  You  shall  tell  me  what  you  mean,"  I  said 
sternly.  "I  will  not  bear  this  silence  another 
minute." 

"  I  imagine  you  know  what  I  mean,  Sidney, 
pretty  well  already,"  he  said,  glancing  aside  and 
throwing  himself  on  the  deep  window-seat  wear- 
ily. "In  fact,  I  judge  that  you  could  if  you 
chose  fill  out  in  full  what  I  only  know  in  broken 
hints." 

"  Tell  what  are  the  broken  hints  and  I  can 
answer  you,"  I  said  haughtily,  with  an  uncon- 


CHAP.  XX  [  346  ] 

trollable  sinking  in  my  heart  as  I  saw  that  his 
faith  in  me  was  not  beyond  swerving. 

"  You  really  want  me  to,  do  you?  "  he  said, 
fixing  a  gaunt,  bitter  glance  upon  my  face. 

I  bent  my  head. 

"  Very  well,  then.  This  is  the  kind  of  thing 
the  Clubs  are  full  of  just  now — a  little  perhaps 
will  be  all  you  will  care  for — Lloyd  is  no  archi- 
tect, he  has  failed  flat  in  everything  he  has  un- 
dertaken, conspicuously  on  his  interior  work  for 
Ross  Kimball's  house,  which  had  to  be  com- 
pletely reconstructed  by  Hook.  His  wife  has 
to  have  luxuries,  so  she  finds  ways  to  get  them 
for  herself.  Ross  Kimball  took  a  fancy  to  her 
for  a  little  while,  and  spent  enough  money  on 
her  in  Paris  to  set  up  a  provincial  bank,  but  he 
is  deadly  tired  of  her  now." 

Here  Irving  broke  off.  Something  in  my 
face  I  think  frightened  him. 

"Go  on,"  I  whispered  hoarsely,  my  throat 
had  become  chalk  dry. 

"I  should  think  that  was  enough.  It  was 
enough  for  me  any  way.  This  though  is  par- 


[  247  ]  CHAP.  XX 

ticularly  choice — Boss  Kimball,  they  are  say- 
ing, has  promised  Mort  Masson  to  keep  him  in 
wine  and  cigars  a  year  if  he  will  take — my 
wife — off  his  hands." 

With  this  Irving  rose,  thrust  his  hands  deep 
in  his  pockets  and  strode  up  and  down  the  room, 
his  face  fairly  livid,  his  eyes  on  the  floor. 

I  stood  motionless,  save  that,  having  just  be- 
fore taken  up  a  fine  embroidered  handkerchief 
from  my  dressing-table,  I  now,  with  absolute 
unconsciousness  of  what  I  was  doing,  began 
tearing  it  with  nice  deliberation  into  narrow, 
even  strips.  This  action  presently  caught  Ir- 
ving's  eye.  He  stopped  and  stood  watching  my 
hands  silently  for  an  instant.  Then,  in  a  change 
of  tone  from  the  tragic  intensity  which  had 
marked  the  conversation  thus  far  to  one  of  triv- 
ial fretfulness,  he  asked  sharply, 

"  Isn't  that  a  particularly  expensive  hand- 
kerchief, Sidney?" 

I  looked  at  him  steadily,  musing  a  little  on 
the  curious  unreality  which  this  question  seemed 
to  cast  on  all  that  had  gone  before. 


CHAP.  XX  [  348  ] 

"  Yes,"  I  said  slowly,  perceiving  what  I  had 
done.  "I  ought  to  have  selected  a  commoner 
one/' 

I  spoke  with  perfect  gravity.  I  do  not  think 
Irving  detected  the  ghastly  sarcasm.  He  went 
on  walking.  I  watched  his  misery  and  grew 
gentle. 

"  My  husband  does  not  believe  these  things," 
I  said.  "  Of  that  I  can  be  sure,  so  we  will  not 
quite  despair,  even  yet." 

There  was  silence. 

"  Surely,  Irving,"  I  cried  then  with  urgent 
appeal,  "  you  can  not  let  me  think  that  you  do 
believe  that  I  am — what  they  say !  " 

"  I  do  not  want  to,  Sidney ;  you  may  be  sure 
of  that.  It  has  been  killing  me,  and  not  slowly 
either,  all  this  week — but  what  can  I  think? 
Where  there  is  so  much  smoke  there  is  always 
some  fire.  And  you  know  Ross  Kimball  has 
taken  you  about  and  given  you  expensive  things 
— oh,  you  know  it  all  better  than  I  do !  "  and  his 
look  was  of  weary  disgust. 

"Irving,"  I  said,  with  the  quietness  which 


[  349  ]  CHAP.  XX 

despair  gives,  for  I  felt  that  I  had  sounded  now 
the  lowest  depths  of  human  misery,  "  all  that 
I  have  accepted  from  that  man  has  been  with 
your  express  knowledge  and  approval,"  and  I 
recalled  to  his  mind  the  events  that  have  been 
recounted  here.  Of  the  room  which  had  been 
prepared  for  me  I  found  it  impossible  to  speak 
to  Irving.  Instinct  told  me  that  it  was  better 
to  bury  that  in  silence. 

"  Is  this  all — all  that  has  happened  between 
you  1 "  he  questioned  harshly. 

"  No."  My  head  dropped  then  and  my  voice 
faltered.  "  On  the  night  we  were  at  his  house, 
that  second  of  October,  he  made  it  known  to  me 
that  he  wished  an  impossible  relation  to  exist 
between  us.  I  found  then  that  all  he  had  done 
for  me,  for  us  both,  had  been  with  this  horrid 
end  in  view." 

"What  did  you  do?" 

Then  I  looked  straight  in  my  husband's 
face  and  felt  no  veil  of  shame  upon  my  own. 

"  The  only  thing  I  could  do,  Irving.  I  re- 
pulsed, rejected  everything,  fairly  fled  from 


CHAP.  XX  [  35O  ] 

him.  Of  course  he  will  never  forgive  me — but 
— at  least — oh  Irving !  " 

With  all  my  soul  hanging  upon  him,  with  its 
supreme  and  solemn  appeal  for  his  sovereign 
wrath,  his  protecting  pity,  I  suddenly  perceived 
that  of  all  these  none  was  in  his  face.  Its  look 
was  of  dogged  dejection  and  disfavor.  Then  I 
cried  to  God,  for  I  knew  that  vain  was  the  help 
of  man.  I  had  sounded  now  a  deep  still  below 
the  deep. 

"  Of  course  he  will  never  forgive  you,  nor 
me  either,"  Irving  was  saying,  I  found  a  little 
later.  "You  should  have  foreseen  this,  know- 
ing what  was  at  stake.  You  could  have  used  a 
little  finesse  in  turning  him  away.  There  must 
have  been  some  way  to  soften  things  down  a 
little  and  not  make  a  man  like  that  your  bitter 
enemy." 

My  limbs  seemed  suddenly  to  lose  their 
strength.  I  dropped  back  upon  my  reclining 
chair,  staring  blankly. 

Irving  stepped  forward  and  stood  looking 
down  upon  me. 


[  251  ]  CHAP.  XX 

"  We  are  undone,  Sidney,  that  is  the  whole 
of  it.  It  is  shipwreck,  nothing  less.  Ross  Kim- 
ball  is  strong  enough  to  sink  any  man  when  he 
sets  out,  as  many  a  man  knows  to  his  sorrow- 
as  I  am  finding  out  every  day  now.  And  as  for 
a  woman's  reputation — well,  we  won't  talk  about 
it  any  more.  You  have  been  very  imprudent" 
(and  his  voice  added  by  its  inflection — "  if  noth- 
ing more  "),  "  and  the  sooner  we  can  get  away 

from  C now  the  better  it  will  be  for  both 

of  us.    I  can  not  live  where  I  am  no  longer  re- 
spected.   Good-by,  Sidney." 

"Where  are  you  going?"  I  asked  mechan- 
ically, my  lips  moving  stiffly,  with  difficulty  to 
frame  the  words. 

"  Back  to  Boston.  You  needn't  have  dinner 
for  me.  I  have  arranged  to  dine  at  the  Parker 
House  with  a  man  who  may  be  willing  to  buy  the 
house,  if  you  consent,  and  if  we  can  agree  on 
terms.  We  will  talk  it  over  later." 

He  bent  and  kissed  me,  but  his  kiss  was  cold. 
He  went  immediately  down-stairs  and  in  a  few 
minutes  more  the  outer  door  closed  upon  him. 


CHAP.  XX  [  252  ] 

So  the  house  was  going  too !  Had  I  not  felt  it 
crumble  in  the  night  when  all  was  still?  This 
was  shipwreck,  Irving  said.  If  only  the  waves 
would  close  quickly  over  my  head !  Then  there 
strayed  back  into  my  mind,  by  some  trick  of  as- 
sociation, the  lines  which  I  had  read  that  other 
day.  Slowly,  audibly  I  repeated  them,  calling 
each  word  back  as  I  pronounced  it  from  the 
blank  of  forgetfulness. 

"  A  pilot,  God,  a  pilot !  for  the  helm  is  left  awry, 
And  the  best  sailors  in  the  ship  lie  there  among  the 
dead  I " 

As  in  paroxysms  of  physical  agony  some 
formula  of  words,  however  unmeaning,  will  me- 
chanically reiterate  itself  on  the  lips  of  the  suf- 
ferer, so  in  the  hour  which  followed,  these  two 
lines  said  themselves  perpetually  in  my  brain. 

Some  one  knocked  at  length  on  my  door,  just 
as  the  lights  began  to  shine  out  in  the  street 
below.  It  was  my  maid. 

"  Dr.  Kirke  has  come,  Mrs.  Lloyd.  Would 
you  wish  to  see  him  up  here?  I  think,  ma'am, 
he  is  rather  in  a  hurry." 


[  253  ]  CHAP.  XX 

For  a  moment  I  could  not  think  who  Dr. 
Kirke  was.  The  maid  waited  patiently  a  full 
minute,  while  I  rose,  crossed  the  room  to  my 
dressing-table,  looked  mechanically  at  my  hair, 
and  then  turned  to  her  and  said, 

"  Who  did  you  say  had  come  f  " 

She  repeated  her  first  statement  word  for 
word. 

I  forced  myself  to  look  at  her  with  intelli- 
gence and  recognition  of  what  she  said.  I  be- 
lieve I  even  smiled. 

"  Yes.    Let  him  come  up  here  if  he  will." 

Then,  in  so  short  a  time  that  I  was  sure  he 
must  have  followed  her  up  the  stairs,  Dr.  Kirke 
came  into  the  room.  I  saw  at  once  that  he  was 
preoccupied  with  some  grave  anxiety  and  in 
haste.  He  did  not  take  the  chair  I  offered. 

"  How  is  the  side  ?  Is  the  nurse  dressing  it 
regularly,  as  I  told  her?  " 

"  I  let  the  nurse  go,  Dr.  Kirke,  a  week  ago." 

The  Doctor  frowned. 

"  What  in  the  name  of  common  sense  did  you 
do  that  for?  "  and  a  quick  motion  of  his  hand 


CHAP.  XX  [  254  ] 

indicated  that  he  must  himself  examine  condi- 
tions. In  weary  submission  and  unbroken  si- 
lence I  removed  the  sleeve  of  my  wrapper  and 
adjusted  the  inner  clothing.  While  I  did  this 
the  Doctor  with  quick  movements  had  drawn  the 
shades  and  turned  on  the  light.  Warm  water 
and  towels  were  just  at  hand.  Without  a  word 
on  either  side  he  went  through  the  process  of 
removing  the  dry,  heated  dressings,  cleansing 
the  wound  still  not  fully  healed  and  putting  on 
fresh  bandages.  His  touch  I  noticed  was  pecu- 
liarly rapid  and  dexterous,  but  so  gentle  that  I 
almost  felt  the  pity  in  his  finger-tips. 

He  rose  when  all  was  done  and  remarked 
that  I  was  not  having  quite  the  care  that  the  case 
demanded. 

"  I  must  look  after  you  a  little  better,  I  see," 
he  said,  and  smiled  his  quiet  smile,  then  grew 
graver  as  he  observed  my  face  and  asked  me  a 
few  questions.  "  My  sister  is  coming  to  see  you 
to-night,  I  believe,"  he  added  later,  "  or  to-mor- 
row morning." 

He  bowed  then  a  silent  good-by,  and  with 


[  255  ]  CHAP.  XX 

light  but  firm,  rapid  step  left  the  room.  But 
when  I  was  left  alone  I  experienced  in  an  ex- 
traordinary degree  the  irresistible  effluence  of 
comfort  and  uplifting  which  flowed  from  Dr. 
Kirke's  mere  presence  and  from  his  silent, 
steady  power. 

He  had  said  not  one  word  of  sympathy  to 
me,  barely  one  of  passing  personal  interest. 
He  had  sought  to  convey  no  significance  in  looks 
which  he  would  not  commit  to  speech.  Never- 
theless, I  knew  as  perfectly  as  if  he  had  sworn 
to  it,  that  though  I  was  all  that  calumny  had 
made  me  and  he  knew  it,  he  would  still  have 
looked  upon  me  with  his  great  compassion  with- 
out hardness  or  contempt  and  would  still  have 
sought  to  succor  me,  body  and  soul,  with  his 
healing  touch.  Tears  came  to  me  then  and 
sleep. 


XXI 

SARAH  KIKKE  came  early  in  the  morning 
and  the  maid  brought  her  to  my  room. 

"  You  are  a  lamb,"  she  assured  me  bending 
over  my  bed  and  using  her  somewhat  abrupt 
style  of  petting.  "  You  are  a  lamb  and  you  are 
going  to  be  gathered  in  arms  and  carried  in 
bosoms  for  a  while  now.  It  is  high  time !  Come, 
put  out  your  feet  and  I  will  slip  on  your  stock- 
ings." 

"  I  am  afraid  I  am  not  able  to  get  up,  Miss 
Kirke,"  I  said,  turning  a  plaintive  look  up  to- 
ward her.  It  was  so  new  to  be  petted  after  this 
fashion. 

"Oh,  yes,"  she  said  cheerfully,  "you  will 
feel  better  after  you  have  been  up  a  little.  I 
will  help  you  to  dress  and  then  put  you  in  my 
carriage  which  is  waiting,  and  take  you  home 
with  me  for  a  fortnight  at  least.  You  need 
looking  after." 


[  257  ]  CHAP.  XXI 

Obstacles  and  arguments  were  borne  down 
with  imperative  decision.  Irving's  comfort  was 
amply  provided  for.  Everything  had  been  con- 
sidered. I  went  with  her.  I  knew  perfectly 
well  that  if  I  had  remained  proud  and  prosper- 
ous and  popular  this  woman's  interest  would 
not  have  been  bestowed  upon  me,  and  never 
should  I  have  been  taken  into  her  home  save  as 
a  formal  visitor  to  its  outer  courts.  But  now 
I  was  poor,  suffering,  neglected,  slandered, 
broken-hearted.  All  that  gave  others  the  ex- 
cuse to  pass  me  by  on  the  other  side  gave  me  my 
claim  on  Sarah  Kirke's  innermost  treasures  of 
sustaining  sympathy.  I  did  not  know,  however, 
until  long  afterward,  that  this  present  line  of 
action  was  the  result  of  an  impulse  of  the  Doc- 
tor's conceived  only  at  the  moment  when  he  told 
me  that  his  sister  would  call  upon  me  soon. 

I  had  never  been  beyond  Miss  Kirke's  recep- 
tion-room before.  The  moment  I  entered  the 
rooms  in  which  she  and  the  Doctor  lived  I  felt 
in  them  the  vitalizing  atmosphere  of  their  in- 
mates. It  was  an  enormous  house,  and  it  was 

17 


CHAP.  XXI  [  258  ] 

only  the  second  floor  which  was  given  up  to  in- 
valid guests.  I  was  not  counted  as  one  of  these, 
but  rather  as  one  of  the  family. 

The  first  floor  contained  in  separate  suites 
the  offices  and  private  apartments  of  the  Kirkes, 
and  beside  these  a  great  library,  hall  and  dining- 
room.  Everywhere  I  found  certain  things  in 
evidence:  spotless  cleanliness,  comfort,  repose, 
simplicity,  books  and  sunshine.  There  seemed 
to  have  been  no  calculation  for  esthetic  effect; 
there  was  no  elaborate  overrefinement,  no  co- 
quetry of  things,  no  finesse  in  these  rooms.  All 
was  homely,  low-toned,  destitute  of  self -con- 
sciousness. In  fine  they  bore  a  masculine  rather 
than  a  feminine  expression.  But  the  library 
was  lined  with  books  to  the  ceiling,  save  for  the 
wide,  uncurtained  windows  which  always  stood 
open  level  with  the  lovely  old  garden ;  the  chim- 
ney was  enormous  and  in  it  great  logs  were  al- 
ways burning  with  a  heart  of  deep-red  embers 
beneath ;  a  great  oak  table,  as  sturdy  and  strong 
as  the  Doctor,  held  endless  store  of  magazines 
and  books,  chiefly  indeed  scientific  I  found ;  and 


[  259  ]  CHAP.  XXI 

there  was  an  unstinted  number  of  no  less  sturdy 
and  inviting  easy-chairs.  Dogs  were  every- 
where, small  and  great.  Sarah  Kirke's  favor- 
ite was  a  white  collie,  but  I  immediately  adopted 
for  my  own  intimate  companionship  a  large 
Irish  setter  named  Barbarossa,  commonly 
known  as  Bab.  Something  in  his  somber  eyes 
under  the  amorphous,  overhanging  brow,  to- 
gether with  his  mild  mouth,  suggested  his  mas- 
ter to  me  in  a  curious  and  even  moving  degree. 
The  presence  of  so  much  wholesome  animal  life 
ever  about  me,  strong,  sluggish  even,  destitute 
of  self-consciousness  or  introspection,  minis- 
tered I  believe  in  a  large  degree  to  my  recovery 
of  poise  and  health. 

Altogether  I  found  my  new  abode  a  place  to 
make  no  demand  upon  me  for  the  nerve  effort 
of  response,  of  admiration  and  appreciation, 
but  a  place  where  I  could  let  myself  and  my 
cares  go  clean  out  of  sight. 

I  had  never  seen  maids  like  Sarah  Kirke's. 
They  were  always  charmingly  neat  in  pink  cot- 
ton gowns  and  white  aprons,  and  always  con- 


CHAP.  XXI  [  260  ] 

veyed  an  effect  of  quiet  but  enthusiastic  satis- 
faction in  the  privilege  of  bringing  one  at  all 
hours  and  in  all  places  a  cup  of  tea,  a  plate  of 
fruit,  an  added  pillow  or  rug,  a  fresh  magazine, 
a  few  perfect  flowers.  I  had  never  been  so 
taken  care  of  in  my  life,  never  made  so  blessedly 
comfortable.  I  was  like  a  frightened  child  who 
is  afterward  soothed  and  petted;  who  finds  all 
his  terrors  suddenly  vanishing  and  learns  that 
he  can  smile  again. 

Sarah  Kirke  herself  was  the  busiest  woman 
and  the  most  energetic  I  ever  knew  and  in  her 
own  domain  an  absolute  monarch.  I  found  her 
much  less  plain  at  home  than  as  I  had  more 
commonly  seen  her  in  street  costume,  by  reason 
of  her  very  fine  gray  hair  and  the  splendid 
molding  of  her  head  and  neck  which  her  outer 
garments  concealed.  She  always  wore  gray  silk 
with  broad  bands  of  sheer  white  lawn  at  throat 
and  wrists.  Whenever  she  entered  the  room 
where  I  happened  to  be  it  was  as  if  a  tonic  blast 
had  entered  with  her  to  chase  away  all  the  fogs 
and  vapors.  She  took  wholly  into  her  own 


[  261  ]  CHAP.  XXI 

hands  all  the  care  of  me,  both  as  doctor  and 
nurse,  from  the  day  I  entered  her  house. 

The  one  feature  of  life  in  the  Kirke  house 
which  impressed  me  more  than  all  others  was 
the  outflowing,  self-forgetting  beneficence  of 
service.  There  was  a  perpetual,  vital  contact 
with  all  forms  of  human  need  and  suffering, 
and  to  each  in  turn  virtue  was  given  out  daily 
in  full  and  cordial  measure.  Life  was  lived  for 
others'  needs,  not  for  the  delight  of  self  and 
sense.  Such  life  was  to  me  a  revelation. 

I  lay  in  my  spacious  sunny  chamber  one  of 
those  first  days,  and  pondered  over  these  things. 
Sarah  Kirke  came  in  to  look  after  me,  and  while 
she  was  treating  my  side,  then  almost  healed,  I 
said  to  her, 

"I  never  did  a  good  deed  in  my  life,  al- 
though I  do  not  think  it  ever  occurred  to  me  to 
notice  it  before.  I  have  given  away  food  and 
clothing  sometimes  because  it  made  me  uncom- 
fortable to  know  that  people  were  unfed  and  un- 
clothed. I  gave  to  ease  my  mind.  I  have  given 
away  money  in  church  collections  for  hospitals 


CHAP.  XXI  [  262  ] 

and  for  other  charities,  because  it  was  expected, 
and  I  should  have  been  criticised  if  I  had  failed 
to  do  so.  I  did  not  like  to  give  it  particularly, 
but  my  husband  always  wished  me  to  do  the  cor- 
rect thing.  But  you  give  yourself  and  all  that 
you  have  for  these  people  in  the  house,  for  peo- 
ple like  me,  for  everybody.  You  do  it  all  the 
time.  How  does  it  happen  that  I  am  so  utterly 
different?" 

At  first  she  seemed  to  have  no  answer  ready. 
I  glanced  aside  at  her  face  and  saw  that  she  was 
thinking.  At  length  she  said  with  characteristic 
abruptness, 

"  It  is  simply  a  matter  of  motive  power." 

I  did  not  answer  and  she  spoke  again,  brief- 
ly, as  before. 

"You  have  heard  of  Christ?  " 

"Yes.    The  name  is  familiar,  Miss  Kirke." 

She  drew  her  mouth  with  a  quaint,  silent 
smile  she  sometimes  had. 

"I  am  afraid  it  is  too  late  now  for  me  to 
elect  religion,"  I  said  musingly,  and  my  thought 
ran  back  to  the  time  when  I  had  flippantly,  har- 


[  263  ]  CHAP.  XXI 

dily,  coined  the  phrase.    It  was  the  night  I  first 
saw  him. 

Sarah  Kirke  had  risen  now  to  go.  She  was 
always  in  demand  all  over  the  house  at  this  time 
in  the  morning.  I  do  not  think  my  words  pained 
her,  although  she  probably  saw  that  they  were 
half  carelessly  spoken. 

"  It  is  not  too  late,"  she  said.  "  Believe  any- 
thing rather  than  that." 

So  saying,  she  left  me. 

A  letter  from  Irving  lay  still  unread  on  the 
table.  Sarah  Kirke  had  brought  it  when  she 
came  in.  I  opened  it  now  and  found  it  exactly 
what  I  expected :  correctly  affectionate,  perfunc- 
torily solicitous — at  the  end  an  honest  touch  of 
morbid  desperateness.  One  reading  was  enough. 
I  threw  it  presently  into  the  open  fire.  It 
brought  no  help  or  healing;  held  no  spiritual 
essence  to  burn  away  malignant  memories ;  no 
tears  of  tenderness  to  quench  the  flames  of  re- 
morse and  self-accusing.  Irving  and  I  had 
lived  our  life  together  as  comrades-at-arms  in 
a  none  too  noble  contest,  the  contest  for  enjoy- 


CHAP.  XXI  [  264  ] 

merit,  gain,  appearance,  self-advancement.  We 
had  been  worsted.  Our  cause  lost,  we  faced 
each  other  with  mutual  distrust  and  upbraiding, 
bitter  though  disguised — such  ignoble  energies 
as  an  ignoble  strife  engenders. 

I  saw  Irving's  mind,  his  nature,  laid  out  dis- 
tinctly before  me  in  that  moment.  Its  prime 
factors  were  "the  correct  thing,"  securing  his 
share  of  the  world's  booty,  the  passion  for 
calling  forth  approval,  admiration,  envy  per- 
haps incidentally — wholly  a  man  of  the  world. 
On  a  small  scale,  truly;  the  lines  were  drawn 
narrowly.  What  of  that?  I  had  seen  the  man 
of  the  world  on  the  grand  scale,  the  man  who 
no  longer  needed  to  struggle,  having  attained. 
The  prime  factors  were  much  the  same.  What 
was  to  choose  between  them? 

Could  I  see  myself  as  clearly?  I  lifted  my 
eyes,  which  ached  and  burned,  and  looked  list- 
lessly across  at  the  fireplace  where  the  flames 
had  died  down  to  red  embers.  The  open  sheet 
of  Irving's  letter  lay  smoldering,  half  burned 
at  the  embers7  edge.  Being  stout  paper  the 


[  265  ]  CHAP.  XXI 

sheet  had  partially  resisted  the  fire.  I  noted  its 
scorched  and  spotted  surface,  seared  to  the  cen- 
ter, shriveled,  shapeless,  the  blackened  edges, 
the  meaningless  marks  of  the  writing.  I  saw  in 
it  my  sign.  Yes,  my  life  was  like  that — signi- 
fying nothing  now,  nothing  but  that  it  had  been 
through  the  fire  and  was  spoiled. 

What  was  the  fire?  What  was  the  fire?  I 
asked  myself  in  dreary  monotony.  Then  all  the 
sick  fancies  ran  into  each  other  confusedly  and 
I  dozed  miserably. 

When  I  awoke  I  decided  to  let  myself  go  for 
a  while.  Thinking  terrified  me. 


XXII 

YES,  Sarah  Kirke  was  the  strongest,  the 
finest  woman  I  had  ever  had  the  good  fortune 
of  meeting  in  my  life,  but,  strange  as  it  will 
sound,  in  those  days  the  companionship  of  Bar- 
barossa,  the  great  Irish  setter,  was  secretly 
more  welcome  to  me  than  hers.  Despite  all  her 
tact  and  the  abrupt  tenderness  which  I  quickly 
learned  to  love,  I  knew  that  she  was  watching 
me,  expecting  something  of  me,  hoping  I  would 
develop  at  this  point  in  my  experience  after  a 
certain  ideal  for  me  which  existed  in  her  mind. 
But,  alas,  I  could  never  take  the  form  of  any- 
body's ideal,  and  just  then  I  was  not  ready  to 
develop  in  any  direction.  Stagnation  was  my 
heaven,  oblivion  my  chief  good.  I  would  have 
liked 

'  As  right  and  true  to  be 
As  a  flower  or  a  tree " 


I  was  willing  to  be  "  instinct-good,"  but  I  did 
not  want  to  think  about  myself  at  all.    The  sub- 


[  267  ]  CHAP.  XXII 

ject  was  too  awful,  too  complex,  and  I  was  still 
too  bruised  and  broken  to  encounter  it.  And  so 
I  liked  best  the  dogs  who  received  me  with  hos- 
pitality and  gravely  permitted  me  to  caress 
them,  but  who  expected  nothing  of  me  beyond 
a  bonne  bouche  now  and  again.  And  best  of  all 
the  dogs,  as  I  have  said,  I  liked  Barbarossa. 

To  tell  the  whole  truth  I  missed  Dr.  Kirke 
inexpressibly.  I  was  finding  an  acute  disap- 
pointment in  the  fact  that  once  within  the  walls 
of  his  own  house  he  had  himself  become  to  me 
persistently  invisible.  I  had  supposed  that  when 
I  became  a  member  of  his  household  I  should 
find  daily  opportunity  for  intercourse  with  him. 
I  had  learned  to  look  to  him  as  the  source  of 
light  and  leading  on  my  dark  and  thorny  way, 
my  pilot  in  the  stormy  voyage  I  had  made  of 
my  life  thus  far.  I  wanted  him.  I  longed  for 
his  presence,  for  the  look  in  his  eyes,  that  trou- 
bled gentleness,  that  musing  patience  which  I 
found  in  Barbarossa's.  Sarah  might  be  as 
strong;  she  was  certainly  as  earnest  and  as 
true-hearted ;  but  she  was  a  woman.  I  was  still 


CHAP.  XXII  [  268  ] 

too  much  myself  not  to  find  the  man's  sympathy 
and  support  more  availing  than  the  woman's. 

But  him  I  saw  not.  The  first  five  days  Sarah 
kept  me  fast  in  bed.  In  those  days  I  certainly 
heard  his  step  and  his  voice  at  intervals  about 
the  house,  and  although  his  sister  never  men- 
tioned him  directly  I  was  easily  convinced  that 
a  constant  rapport  existed  between  them  re- 
garding my  care  and  treatment.  I  was  confi- 
dent that  it  was  he  who  prescribed  for  me 
through  her.  However,  when  I  began  to  come  to 
the  table  he  did  not  appear.  I  asked  no  ques- 
tion regarding  him  or  his  movements,  as  I 
should  have  done  had  I  been  indifferent  to  them. 
I  knew  he  had  an  office  in  Boston;  I  knew  he 
was  constantly  called  long  distances  away  from 
home  in  consultation  and  for  difficult  surgical 
operations.  His  absence  was  plainly  not  re- 
markable or  Sarah  Kirke  would  have  remarked 
upon  it. 

After  I  was  able  to  go  about  the  house  I  used 
to  amuse  myself  with  tracing  what  I  fancied 
might  be  his  household  habits,  by  the  books,  and 


[  269  ]  CHAP.  XXII 

pipes,  and  papers,  the  microscopes,  the  port- 
folios, the  easy  chairs.  Sarah  kept  a  horrible 
photograph  of  him  on  her  chiffonier.  I  used  to 
make  excuses  to  go  into  her  room  that  I  might 
glance  at  this  photograph  in  passing. 

But  I  soon  discovered  a  better  source  of 
comfort  and  of  communication  with  the  avail- 
ing presence  of  Sarah  Kirke's  brother.  In  a 
straw  pocket  attached  to  one  great  wicker  chair 
I  found  the  small,  shabby  volume  which  I  used 
to  see  oftener  than  any  other  book  in  his  hand 
on  shipboard.  It  was  much  worn,  much  marked, 
much  like  the  man.  One  day,  reading  this  which 
follows,  I  learned  the  Kirkes'  whole  theory  of 
spiritual  healing: 

"  A  Grief  of  recent  birth  is  a  sick  infant  that 
must  have  its  medicine  administered  in  its  milk, 
and  sad  Thoughts  are  the  sorrowful  Heart's 
natural  food.  .  .  .  The  Soul  in  her  desolation 
hugs  the  sorrow  close  to  her  as  her  sole  remain- 
ing garment;  and  this  must  be  drawn  off  so 
gradually  and  the  garment  to  be  put  in  its 
stead  so  gradually  slipt  on  and  feel  so  like  the 


CHAP.  XXII  [  27O  ] 

former,  that  the  Sufferer  shall  be  sensible  of  the 
change  only  by  the  refreshment.  The  true  spirit 
of  consolation  is  well  content  to  detain  the  tear 
in  the  eye,  and  finds  a  surer  pledge  of  its  suc- 
cess in  the  smile  of  Eesignation  that  dawns 
through  that,  than  in  the  liveliest  shows  of  a 
forced  and  alien  exhilaration." 

But  the  deepest  word  and  the  divinest  was 
herein : 

"  We  are  next  to  bring  out  the  Divine  Por- 
trait itself,  the  distinct  features  of  its  coun- 
tenance, as  a  sojourner  among  men;  its  benign 
aspect  turned  toward  its  fellow  pilgrims,  the 
extended  arm  and  the  hand  that  blesseth  and 
healeth" 

These  words  I  pondered  often  and  long.  I 
had  seen  and  known  the  man  of  this  world  both 
small  and  great.  I  had  now  been  brought  into 
touch  with  another  type ;  the  man  of  God.  And 
behind  him  I  now  dimly  discerned — the  Christ 
of  God. 

One  day  I  found  a  pair  of  gray  dogskin 
gloves  which  I  recognized  lying  on  a  table  in  a 


[  271  ]  CHAP.  XXII 

corner  of  the  hall,  a  long  surgical  case  with 
them.  I  knew  they  had  not  been  there  the  day 
before.  The  sight  of  them  gave  me  a  strangely 
agreeable  sensation.  I  could  not  resist  the  im- 
pulse to  take  them  up  in  my  hands.  I  even  laid 
my  cheek  against  them,  pretending  to  distin- 
guish the  species  of  skin  by  the  slight  charac- 
teristic odor.  Some  one  came  down  the  hall  and 
I  hurried  away  feeling  like  a  guilty  thing. 
Sarah  was  bringing  in  the  letters.  As  I  joined 
her  she  took  her  fountain-pen  from  its  neat 
little  socket  (she  always  carried  it  at  her  belt 
and  it  was  always  in  order)  and  began  rapidly 
crossing  out  the  addresses  and  redirecting  them. 

"  I  must  forward  these  to  the  doctor,"  she 
said  carelessly. 

I  noticed  that  she  wrote  Savannah  on  the 
envelopes. 

"  He  has  run  away  for  a  little  duck-shooting 
and  exploring  in  the  South,"  she  added. 

"  When  did  he  go  ?  "  I  asked  politely. 

"  He  started  last  night." 

The  days  passed  and  my  two  weeks  were 


CHAP.  XXII  [  272  ] 

nearly  over.  Sarah  Kirke  expressed  a  quiet 
satisfaction  in  my  recovery.  I  could  sleep  and 
eat  normally;  my  pulse  was  comparatively 
steady ;  my  physical  system  in  reasonably  good 
order;  my  nervous  condition  far  less  disturbed 
than  when  I  came:  all  my  tangible  and  local 
troubles  were  healed.  I  had  no  longer  an  ex- 
cuse for  not  taking  up  life  again.  Doubtless 
Irving  needed  me,  even  if  he  did  not  greatly  de- 
sire my  presence.  At  least  I  must  go  back  to 
him  and  to  our  home.  The  time  was  set  for  a 
certain  Wednesday  morning.  It  was  December 
now.  On  Tuesday  afternoon  Sarah  Kirke  came 
into  the  library  about  four  o'clock  and  found 
me  engaged  in  carefully  arranging  a  section  of 
the  book-shelves  which  had  been  out  of  order. 
Barbarossa  was  asleep  on  the  hearth-rug.  The 
room  was  still. 

"  I  am  a  good  girl,"  I  said,  glancing  over  my 
shoulder  at  her  with  a  playful  childish  challenge 
'for  her  praise.  "  See  what  I  am  doing !  " 

"A  very  good  girl,"  she  said  nodding, 
plainly  pleased.  "  I  am  going  out,  Sidney  " — 


[  273  ]  CHAP.  XXII 

she  had  taken  up  the  habit  of  calling  me  thus 
by  name  to  my  infinite  comfort — "  and  I  will 
drive  around  by  your  house  and  see  that  your 
maid  is  there,  and  leave  word  that  you  are  com- 
ing in  the  morning." 

"  And  the  man  can  take  my  trunk  to-night. 
It  is  quite  ready,"  I  returned.  Then  I  thanked 
her  and  she  went  out.  I  heard  the  carriage  as 
it  was  driven  down  the  long  garden,  and  watched 
it  a  moment  from  the  nearest  window,  feeling  a 
lump  rising  in  my  throat  and  a  moisture  in  my 
eyes.  I  finished  my  row  of  books,  getting  all 
the  Darwins  and  after-Darwins  into  a  fine 
chronological  sequence,  then,  weary  of  the  work, 
crossed  to  the  hearth-rug  and  sat  down  beside 
Barbarossa,  looking  into  the  fire. 

The  dog  lifted  his  nose  from  his  paws  as  he 
felt  my  arm  thrown  over  his  flank,  cocked  a 
vaguely  troubled  eye  back  at  me,  decided  to  in- 
dulge me  in  my  somewhat  undignified  approach, 
dropped  his  nose  and  subsided  into  revery. 

"  Bab,"  I  murmured  softly,  "  I  wish  the  mas- 
ter of  this  house  was  coming  home." 

18 


CHAP.  XXII  [  274  ] 

Bab  appeared  to  acquiesce. 

"  I  shall  never,  never  see  him  any  more,  you 
know." 

Bab  reflected  and  found  this  sad. 

"Is  he  good  to  you,  Bab?" 

I  was  sure  I  detected  an  affirmative  guttural. 

"I  thought  so.  Perhaps  he  is  good  to  you  all 
the  time.  Sometimes  he  is  very  dreadful  and 
severe  to  me,  and  hurts  me,  Bab,  very  much. 
Would  you  have  thought  him  capable  of  it?  " 

Bab  made  a  sudden  snap  at  an  imaginary 
fly  which  gave  the  effect  of  an  indignant  shake 
of  the  head. 

I  patted  his  head  and  fumbled  my  fingers  in 
the  impossible  softness  of  his  neck.  Then  I 
pressed  my  forehead  against  the  smooth  space 
between  the  great,  hanging  ears  and  went  on. 

"  But  he  does  it  for  my  good,  you  know,  Bab, 
and  afterward  he  is  rather  apt  to  smile,  which, 
you  see,  makes  you  forget.  If  I  were  only  a 
dog  like  you,  Friedrich  Barbarossa,  I  would 
lick  his  hand.  I  suppose  he  would  find  that 
rather  disagreeable,  though.  Oh,  dear  me !  He 


[  275  ]  CHAP.  XXII 

lets  you  lick  his  hand  all  you  want  to,  you  im- 
perial old  person.  You  can  lie  at  his  feet  and 
lay  your  head  on  his  knee  and  have  his  hand 
laid  on  your  head  every  day  of  your  life.  How 
I  hate  you  for  it !  " 

With  this  I  kissed  him  between  his  eyes  with 
effusion,  and  then,  as  I  thought  his  mental 
powers  seemed  a  little  exhausted  by  the  strain 
of  so  prolonged  a  conversation,  I  patted  his 
eyes  shut,  moved  off  a  bit,  and  made  myself 
very  comfortable  lying  on  the  rug  with  his 
shaggy  back  for  a  pillow. 

In  these  two  weeks  of  dreamy,  irresponsible 
quiet,  my  married  life  and  all  its  fever  and 
stress  had  sunk  into  the  semblance  of  a  dream. 
Irving,  Ross  Kimball,  the  Owens  and  the  rest 
had  lost  tenacity  and  form.  They  seemed  to  me 
sometimes  like  shadows.  Often  now  I  went 
back  to  the  fancies  of  my  girlhood,  farther  back 
indeed.  From  the  fierce  and  passionate  experi- 
ences of  the  last  months  I  had  undergone  a 
strong  reaction.  The  old  child-heart  of  me 
seemed  to  have  come  back  to  life,  kindling  with 


CHAP.  XXII  [  276  ] 

an  innocent  and  cordial  fire  out  of  the  ashes  of 
shame  and  despair.  To  please  myself  now  in 
my  pensive  mood,  I  fell  to  dreaming  such  fool- 
ish day-dreams  as  I  had  fed  myself  with  at 
twelve,  with  myself  ever  as  central  figure.  I 
was  a  beauteous  (beauteous  had  always  been  the 
word)  young  creature  in  long  trailing  white  gar- 
ments who  had  wandered  into  a  great  forest 
otherwise  known  as  Darksome  Wood,  alone 
save  for  the  magnificent  greyhound  which  fol- 
lowed her  adoringly  wherever  she  chose  to  go, 
and  which  she  held  by  a  silver  chain  locked  with 
a  tiny  key  to  a  bracelet  on  her  fair  wrist.  B.  C. 
(Beauteous  Creature),  being  weary  (on  no  ac- 
count tired),  soon  gave  over  exploring  the  for- 
est, and  with  a  gesture  commanded  the  dog  to 
throw  himself  at  her  feet.  Then  she  sank  grace- 
fully on  the  mossy  ground,  pillowed  her  head 
(this  I  had  always  thought  neat)  on  the  smooth 
shoulder  of  the  Faithful  Dog  and  had  straight- 
way gone  to  sleep.  Naturally  he  guarded  her 
slumber  in  motionless  adoring  silence ;  naturally 
also  her  golden  hair  fell  in  glittering  profusion 


[  377  ]  CHAP.  XXII 

over  his  body  and  her  graceful  limbs  were  ele- 
gantly concealed  by  the  silken  folds  of  her 
drapery.  I  remember  smiling  to  myself  at  this 
point  as  I  regarded  my  rough,  short,  homespun 
skirt,  my  own  lengthy  limbs  and  by  no  means 
small  feet  stretched  frankly  on  the  Shirvan  rug 
arrayed  in  thick-soled,  mannish  boots  of  the 
"  bulldog  "  variety.  But  never  mind,  it  was  all 
very  nice.  Barbarossa  had  gone  to  sleep  again 
with  blinking  at  the  fire,  and  I  was  deliciously 
drowsy.  So  the  B.  C.  slept  on,  her  blue-veined 
lids  concealing  her  glorious  eyes,  the  long  lashes 
sweeping  the  delicate  bloom  of  her  cheeks,  when 
lo!  at  precisely  the  right  moment,  enters  the 
Hero — obviously  a  Gallant  Knight,  else  what 
would  he  have  been  doing  in  a  Darksome  Wood! 
— dismounts  in  a  pleasing  manner  from  his  own, 
his  Arab  steed,  and  approaching  B.  C.  stands 
spellbound  at  her  entrancing  loveliness. 

Suddenly  without  faintest  warning  the  Faith- 
ful Dog  who  had  thus  far  submissively  tolerated 
my  head  upon  his  shaggy  hide,  sprang  to  his  feet 
with  a  mighty  motion,  hurling  my  head  from  its 


CHAP.  XXII  [  278  ] 

resting-place  without  the  smallest  ceremony, 
dashed  to  the  library  door,  whining,  barking, 
and  scraping  at  it  in  a  fury  of  excitement.  Be- 
fore I  had  had  time  to  scramble  to  my  feet  the 
door  was  opened  and  Dr.  Kirke  stepped  into  the 
room,  restraining  Bab  with  one  hand  and,  as  he 
perceived  my  presence,  holding  out  the  other 
to  me. 

Gladness  and  confusion  held  an  instant's 
high  carnival  with  me  as  I  shook  myself  into 
shape  and  returned  his  greeting,  my  lips  saying 
not  even  a  word,  my  eyes  saying  perhaps  too 
much. 

The  Doctor  gave  me  a  chair  by  the  fire  and 
drew  up  another  for  himself,  and  I  stared  child- 
ishly to  see  what  a  different  air  he  wore  at 
his  own  fireside  and  that  he  did  not  choose  for 
himself  the  chair  I  had  always  silently  counted 
his  and  hence  preferred.  Bab  established  him- 
self firmly  and  without  a  moment's  delay  close 
before  his  master's  knees,  gazing  with  wistful 
worship  into  his  rugged  face,  his  eyes  pleading 
for  the  attention  they  did  not  get  while  the  Doc- 


[  279  ]  CHAP.  XXII 

tor  talked  to  me.  Yes,  he  had  returned  early  in 
the  morning,  he  had  been  busy  in  Boston  all  day. 
He  had  had  a  pleasant  trip;  the  weather  had 
been  good ;  I  was  looking  better,  he  thought ;  he 
was  glad  the  change  had  resulted  so  well;  his 
sister  had  told  him  by  telephone  in  the  morning 
that  I  was  about  leaving. 

Then  lights  were  brought  and  Sarah  Kirke 
came  home  and  we  had  dinner,  and  after  dinner 
it  was  the  fireside  again,  with  fresh  logs  and 
great  flames  roaring  up  the  chimney.  We  talked 
of  our  shipboard  life  and  of  the  sea  and  what 
we  loved  best  oversea ;  of  architecture,  of  music 
and  poetry  and  the  masters  of  each.  Portfolios 
were  brought  and  rich  collections  looked  over 
and  talked  over.  As  always  with  these  two  peo- 
ple I  found  repose  and  healing.  Life  seemed 
worthy,  deep,  bountiful,  sane  and  strong.  In  the 
morning  I  went  home,  knowing  not  what  should 
await  me.  With  me  went  the  little  leather- 
bound  "  Aids  to  Reflection."  Dr.  Kirke  had  dis- 
covered that  I  liked  it.  He  insisted  that  I  should 
borrow  it  for  a  year. 


XXIII 

I  WAS  glad  that  I  was  permitted  to  go  home 
alone. 

It  was  like  Sarah  Kirke  not  to  insist  on  go- 
ing with  me.  She  never  fussed,  never  overdid  a 
thing. 

I  unlocked  my  own  door  and  entered  the 
silent  house.  Everything  looked  strange  and 
foreign  to  my  eyes  for  a  moment.  All  seemed 
on  a  tiny  scale  and  I  was  struck  by  a  patchiness 
of  effect.  So  many  small  objects  seemed  to  tease 
the  eye  and  challenge  attention  and  comment. 
I  saw  what  I  had  never  seen  before,  that  my 
house  lacked  repose.  Still,  it  was  my  own,  and 
on  the  whole  it  pleased  me. 

Or  was  it  perhaps  not  my  own  now?  Irving 
had  written  me  that  the  sale  of  which  he  had 
made  mention  would  probably  be  effected.  I 
had  given  my  consent. 


[  281  ]  CHAP.  XXIII 

No  one  had  marked  my  entrance,  and  I 
walked  through  into  the  dining-room.  The  table 
was  laid  daintily  for  lunch  for  two.  Then  Ir- 
ving would  come  home  to-day  to  meet  me.  A 
sense  of  pleasure  quickened  my  pulse  a  little. 
There  were  beautiful  roses  in  a  bowl  on  the 
table.  Perhaps  Irving  had  sent  them  to  mark 
and  welcome  my  return.  I  recognized  them, 
however,  in  a  moment  as  having  come  from  the 
greenhouse  of  the  Kirkes.  Doubtless  Sarah  had 
brought  them  yesterday.  I  came  back  into  the 
library.  It  had  a  cheerless,  littered  air.  I 
glanced  over  the  papers  on  the  table.  Many  of 
them  I  found  were  railroad  publications,  all  of 
Southern  routes.  A  large  tissue  map  of  Florida 
lay  outspread.  Newspapers  were  piled  every- 
where. Does  a  man  never  destroy  a  newspaper  ? 
One  I  noticed  was  skulking,  half  hidden,  under 
the  lounge.  I  bent  and  drew  it  out,  glancing  at 
the  date.  It  was  an  evening  paper,  ten  days  old, 
left  fallen,  no  doubt,  where  Irving  had  dropped 
it  after  first  reading,  and  later  pushed  a  little 
out  of  sight.  As  I  crossed  to  my  desk  to  throw 


CHAP.  XXIII  [  282  ] 

the  paper  into  the  large  waste-basket  a  head- 
line caught  my  eye :  "  Reports  of  G.  Ross  Kim- 
ball's  111  Health  Without  Foundation.  Inter- 
view of  a  Reporter  for  the  Evening with 

the  Eminent  Financier."  My  eyes  were  irre- 
sistibly drawn  to  the  column.  I  read  the  entire 
paragraph.  It  was  as  follows: 

"  The  Evening is  glad  to  be  able  to 

announce  authoritatively  that  the  rumors  per- 
sistently circulated  recently  in  certain  quarters 
regarding  the  alleged  physical  disability  of  Mr. 
G.  Ross  Kimball,  the  famous  railroad  operator 
and  multimillionaire,  are  gross  exaggerations. 
Whether  these  reports  have  arisen  from  the 
overanxiety  of  Mr.  Kimball's  friends,  or 
through  the  effort  of  speculators  who  wished 
to  influence  the  money  market,  the  Evening 

does  not  attempt  to  determine.    But  a 

representative  of  this  journal  called  upon  Mr. 
Kimball  at  his  palatial  residence  this  afternoon, 
and  was  received  by  Mr.  Kimball  himself.  The 
interview  took  place  in  the  magnificent  private 
library  of  the  great  capitalist.  This  apartment 


[  283  ]  CHAP.  XXIII 

forms  the  lower  portion  of  the  west  wing  tower, 
and  in  its  interior  decoration  the  genius  of  Mr. 
Hook,  the  distinguished  New  York  architect, 
has  perhaps  reached  its  climax. 

"  The  writer  was  received  most  graciously 
by  Mr.  Kimball.  The  distinguished  citizen  cer- 
tainly showed  no  signs  of  failing  health.  The 
extent  of  his  illness  has  been  a  sharp  attack  of 
grippe  which  has  confined  him  for  a  short  time 
to  the  house.  He  will  not  give  himself  to  affairs 
of  business  for  at  least  two  or  three  days  longer. 

"  It  is  hard  for  Mr.  Kimball  to  do  nothing 
and  during  his  brief  recess  from  public  busi- 
ness he  is  occupying  himself  with,  designs  for 
a  superb  chancel  window  which  he  proposes 
to  bestow  upon  St.  Christopher's  Episcopal 
Church,  in  this  city,  of  which  he  is,  as  is  well 
known,  a  communicant  and  earnest  supporter. 

The  representative  of  the  Evening was 

favored  with  a  view  of  the  drawings  in  ques- 
tion, which  prefigure  a  surpassing  effect  when 
carried  into  execution." 

I  had  hardly  had  time  to  toss  the  paper  away 


CHAP.  XXIII  [  284  ] 

before  I  heard  Irving  coming  in.  He  kissed  me 
with  much  tenderness,  and  seemed  exceedingly 
relieved  at  finding  me  so  much  myself.  I  thought 
him  looking  badly,  and  questioned  him  affec- 
tionately regarding  his  health,  which  he  ad- 
mitted was  "  off."  The  habitudes  of  marital 
courtesy  and  kindness  tided  us  over  the  first 
difficult  bar.  We  sat  down  to  luncheon  with 
some  sense  of  pale  and  sober  happiness.  But 
the  house  was  sold,  Irving  told  me.  He  had 
brought  the  deed  home  for  me  to  sign.  Luncheon 
over,  Irving,  who  seemed  to  have  no  intention 
of  going  back  to  his  office,  sat  down  with  me  in 
the  library  and  called  my  attention  to  the  va- 
rious maps  and  railroad  circulars  which  were 
lying  about. 

"  We  must  face  the  question  now  squarely, 
of  what  to  do  next;"  he  said,  the  lines  of  care 
deepening  visibly,  I  thought,  in  his  face. 

"  What  are  you  considering  most  1 "  I  asked. 
"  I  judge  it  must  be  to  go  South." 

"Yes,"  and  he  drew  the  map  of  Florida 
nearer  to  him  and  bent  over  it.  "  Dr.  Kirke  ad- 


[  285  ]  CHAP.  XXIII 

vises  me  to  try  the  South,  and  especially  Flor- 
ida, for  the  next  few  years.  The  only  reason 
for  not  going  is  that  he  says  I  shall  probably 
live  a  good  deal  longer  if  we  go  down  there  than 
if  we  remain  here.  The  distance  from  Boston  is 
to  my  mind  a  great  thing  in  favor.  The  farther 
we  go  from  where  we  are  known  the  better." 

I  choked  down  a  sigh,  but  made  no  comment 
on  the  bitter  weakness  of  his  words.  Twisted  in 
with  the  pain  they  gave  me  was  another  thread. 
Dr.  Kirke,  it  seemed,  wanted  to  send  us  away 
as  far  and  as  soon  as  possible. 

"And  Dr.  Kirke  really  advised  Florida?" 
I  asked  with  persistent  if  hard-won  cheerful- 
ness. 

"  Yes,  he  has  spent  a  week  down  there,  look- 
ing into  the  thing  for  me." 

I  gave  an  exclamation  of  surprise  shot 
through  with  sudden  understanding  of  that  un- 
explained absence. 

"  How  could  he  leave  his  practise?  I  know 
how  busy  he  is;  I  understand,  you  see,  better 
now  how  hard  he  has  to  work." 


CHAP.  XXIII  [  286  ] 

"  Oh,  it  did  him  good  to  get  away,"  returned 
Irving  coolly.  "  It's  a  good  time  of  year  to  take 
a  little  run  like  that." 

Plainly  the  sense  of  obligation  which  touched 
me  instantly  as  acute  was  not  so  to  Irving.  He 
always  congratulated  himself,  I  remembered,  on 
getting  a  good  thing  for  small  outlay.  Hiding 
the  distaste  which  the  thought  awakened  I  said : 
"Well,  tell  me  the  results  of  his  prospecting 
tour.  Did  he  bring  back  anything  definite  ?  " 

"  Yes.  Sit  over  here.  Let  me  show  you  on 
this  map." 

Irving  then  proceeded  to  set  forth  the  many 
considerations  in  favor  of  our  establishing  our- 
selves permanently  in  Borromeo,  near  the  east 
coast.  We  could  come  north  perhaps,  if  we 
could  afford  it,  for  the  hottest  months,  but  this 
would  be  our  home.  He  would  go  in  for  his  pro- 
fession ;  the  place  was  large  enough  to  give  him 
something  to  do  perhaps  in  that  way,  and  he 
would  invest  a  part  of  the  proceeds  of  the  sale 
of  the  house  in  an  orange-grove.  This  he  could 
work  to  some  extent  himself.  Kirke  said  noth- 


[  287  ]  CHAP.  XXIII 

ing  could  be  better  for  his  health  than  that  kind 
of  outdoor  occupation.  Of  course,  we  should 
necessarily  have  to  curtail  our  style  of  living, 
perhaps  do  without  a  maid  altogether  if  I  were 
well  enough.  I  instantly  expressed  my  unquali- 
fied willingness  to  accept  this  part  of  the  situa- 
tion. 

"  You  may  think  you  will  like  it  now,  at  this 
distance,"  Irving  said  drily,  "  but  you  may  not 
like  it  as  well  when  you  come  to  the  actual 
thing.  However,  Kirke  says  people  live  very 
simply  down  there,  use  lots  of  tinned  things,  you 
know,  and  you  can  always  get  the  colored  people 
to  come  in  on  a  pinch  and  help." 

"  And  the  Doctor  thinks  this  location  espe- 
cially desirable?"  I  asked,  my  heart  sinking 
more  and  more  as  I  saw  more  clearly  what  defi- 
nite shape  the  plan  was  assuming. 

I  wondered  vaguely  why  I  felt  this  unspeak- 
able oppression.  It  certainly  would  be  a  relief 
to  get  away  from  the  associations  of  the  past 
few  months.  Why  was  not  Borromeo  as  good 
a  place  as  any  other? 


CHAP.  XXIII  [  288  ] 

But  there  was  a  cowardice  in  running  away 
which  I  felt  sharply.  One  question  I  would  and 
must  ask  Dr.  Kirke. 

"  Yes,"  Irving  replied ;  "  he  says  it  is  a  really 
live  little  place  for  a  Southern  town  and  the 
climate  is  perfect — no  malaria,  which  you  know 
is  remarkable  for  Florida.  He  has  even  looked 
up  the  matter  of  a  house,  and  thinks  he  has  per- 
haps found  the  right  thing." 

"  Really? "  I  asked,  tears  piercing  my  eyes. 
Dr.  Kirke  was  so  kind,  and  so  in  earnest  to  get 
us  away !  Perhaps  he  was  getting  a  little  tired 
of  such  a  very  exacting  pair  of  people,  always 
making  some  astonishing  demand  upon  his 
generosity  and  patience.  I  knew  he  would  not 
pack  us  off  to  Florida  on  that  account,  but  I 
could  not  wonder  if  he  should  find  it  a  rest  when 
we  were  fairly  off  his  hands. 

Irving  had  stopped  to  sketch  with  swift,  skil- 
ful pencil  a  ground  plan,  consisting  of  a  broad 
veranda  and  three  rooms,  a  living  room,  bed- 
room and  kitchen. 

"  There,"  he  said,  placing  it  in  my  hand : 


[  289  ]  CHAP.  XXIII 

"  that  will  give  you  the  notion  as  well  as  Kirke 
could  remember.  It  is  just  a  cabin,  you  see,  no 
cellar,  no  lath  and  plaster.  Just  the  three  rooms 
with  a  garret  over.  Think  you  could  live  in  it, 
Sidney?  You  see  there  are  almost  no  houses  to 
be  had  in  Borromeo  after  this  time  of  year." 

"  Oh,  we  could  make  it  very  nice  and  cozy, 
I  am  sure.  But  what  should  we  do  with  all  our 
furniture? "  and  I  glanced  about  at  the  beauti- 
ful massive  old  mahogany  pieces,  my  mother's 
pride  and  my  own. 

"  Sell  the  ones  we  can  bring  ourselves  to  part 
with;  store  or  lend  these  things  of  your  moth- 
er's. Take  with  us  just  enough  of  your  simplest 
and  least  expensive  things — a  few  chairs  and 
tables,  a  bed  and  a  bureau  and  a  set  of  dishes. 
In  short,  strip  life  down  to  its  bare  bones,  Sid- 
ney. It  will  be  a  kind  of  colorless,  fleshless 
thing,  like  that,"  and  he  held  out  his  hand,  grown 
sadly  thin,  in  a  forlorn,  spiritless  gesture. 

"  When  do  we  give  possession  of  this 
house  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  The  first  of  January." 

19 


CHAP.  XXIII  [  29O  ] 

"  When  could  we  have  that  other  house,  the 
one  in  Borromeo,  if  we  should  decide  to  go 
there?" 

"  The  first  of  January.  Kirke  took  a  re- 
fusal of  it  for  a  fortnight.  I  shall  wire  them  to- 
night if  you  think  we  had  better  take  it.  Of 
course,  you  could  take  a  day  longer  to  decide. 
This  is  the  seventh  of  December " 

"I  think  probably  you  would  better  wire. 
You  and  Dr.  Kirke  know  much  better  than  I  pos- 
sibly can.  You  and  he  think  it  is  best?  " 

"  There  is  no  best,  you  know,  Sidney,  any 
more  for  us.  Whatever  we  do  will  be  tough  for 
both  of  us." 

"  Yes,  I  see."  I  was  finding  what  it  means 
for  a  man  to  lose  his  grip. 

"  You  think,  do  you,  that  you  could  manage 
to  pack  up  and  all  in  three  weeks?  I  have  got 
Miss  Webster's  promise  to  come  for  a  week  and 
help  you  if  we  decide.  But  of  course  the  time  is 
short." 

"  I  like  it  better  to  be  short.  The  shorter  the 
better.  I  can  not  bear  living  long  in  confusion. 


[  291  ]  CHAP.  XXIII 

The  place  is  not  ours  any  more.  We  don't  be- 
long here.  We  don't  belong  anywhere." 

"  I  guess  that's  right." 

"  See,  there  is  Christmas.  Where  shall  we 
take  our  Christmas  dinner?  In  a  restaurant,  I 
suppose." 

"  It  will  have  to  be  a  cheap  one,"  Irving  an- 
swered with  a  hard  little  laugh. 

"  All  I  ask  is,"  I  said  now,  thinking  hard  and 
fast,  "  that  you  will  let  me  take  until  six  o'clock 
to  decide.  Will  that  give  you  time  for  your  tel- 
egraphing? " 

"  Oh,  yes.  If  you  don't  take  any  longer  than 
that  it  will  be  doing  very  well." 

With  this  Irving  brought  out  a  newspaper 
and  threw  himself  on  the  lounge  to  read. 

I  went  slowly  up-stairs.  On  the  way  my  de- 
cision was  reached.  I  went  to  the  telephone  and 
called  for  Sarah  Kirke's  number.  One  of  the 
maids,  whose  voice  I  recognized,  responded. 
Miss  Kirke  was  out.  Was  the  Doctor  there  or 
would  he  be  in  soon?  No.  He  was  not  expected 
to  dinner  to-night.  She  would  call  up  the  Bos- 


CHAP.  XXIII  [  292  ] 

ton  office  and  find  whether  he  was  out  of 
town. 

After  a  short  interval  she  repeated  the  in- 
formation she  had  gained.  Dr.  Kirke  was  not 
out  of  town,  but  his  movements  were  uncertain. 
He  might  possibly  be  in  the  office  during  the 
afternoon.  He  was  not  there  at  the  time. 

I  rested  a  half  hour,  then  dressed  for  the 
street  and  the  snowstorm,  the  first  of  the  season, 
the  kind  of  storm  I  used  to  love  when  I  was 
happy  and  strong.  The  car  took  me  within  a 
block  of  Dr.  Kirke's  town  office.  It  was  the  first 
time  I  had  ever  visited  it.  My  heart  beat  with 
unreasonable  rapidity  as  I  opened  the  door  and 
entered.  I  found  it  very  much  as  I  imagined; 
soberly  handsome,  dignified,  orderly,  well-ap- 
pointed. The  Doctor  was  not  there.  Two  or 
three  tired-looking  souls  were  waiting  for  him 
in  the  reception-room.  I  went  out  after  a  little, 
too  restless  to  remain  seated  staring  between 
these  people  and  being  stared  at  by  them.  For 
the  first  time  it  occurred  to  me  to  feel  an  inter- 
est in  my  appearance — to  know  what  I  had  come 


[  293  ]  CHAP.  XXIII 

to  look  like  after  the  tempest  and  earthquake. 
It  was  the  first  time  I  had  ventured  out  from 
under  shelter,  so  to  say.  I  strayed  into  a  large 
store  and  presently  passed  a  mirror.  I  stood 
and  looked  at  myself  with  deliberation,  a  little 
startled  at  my  very  marked  pallor.  My  eyes 
had  grown  larger  and  darker,  it  seemed,  but 
still  more  I  marveled  at  the  change  of  expres- 
sion, elusive,  yet  sure.  Something  was  not  there 
which  used  to  be.  Something  which  used  to  be- 
long to  my  face  had  been  burnt  and  purged 
away.  Was  it  the  Lilith  of  me? 

I  walked  for  an  hour  in  the  whirling  snow- 
storm, thinking  so  to  gain  vigor  and  quicker  cir- 
culation. Then  I  came  back  to  Dr.  Kirke's  office. 
It  was  lighted  now  I  perceived.  I  stepped  in 
with  a  peculiar  timidity,  an  annoying  trepida- 
tion through  all  my  limbs  and  a  fluttering  at  my 
heart,  and  yet  I  had  beneath  all  this  perturba- 
tion of  the  nerves  a  firm  and  unshaken  spirit 
and  purpose.  It  was  not  strange  that  my 
nerves  were  insurgent,  since  undeniably  I  was, 
as  I  always  had  been,  afraid,  ridiculously  afraid 
of  Dr.  Kirke. 


CHAP.  XXIII  [  394  ] 

I  found  no  one  in  the  reception  office,  but  the 
page  said  the  Doctor  would  probably  see  me 
soon  and  withdrew.  Hearing  voices  proceeding 
evidently  from  an  inner  office  door,  as  of  some 
person  about  taking  leave,  I  did  not  seat  my- 
self but  crossed  to  the  center  of  the  room  and 
stood  resting  one  hand  on  a  table  there,  when 
the  door  leading  through  a  small  passage  to  the 
inner  office  was  opened  and  a  man  entered  the 
room.  My  face  was  turned  directly  toward  him. 
It  was  Ross  Kimball. 


XXIV 

THE  shock  was  extreme,  or  so,  at  least,  to 
me.  It  occurred  to  me  mysteriously,  for  I  hardly 
lifted  my  eyes  to  his  face,  that  Boss  Kimball 
was  less  surprised  than  I  at  this  encounter. 
The  adroit  by-play  with  which  I  had  of  old  be- 
come so  familiar,  of  following  my  movements 
from  point  to  point,  and,  in  the  end,  meeting  me, 
apparently  by  pure  accident,  suddenly  flashed 
before  my  memory. 

We  stood  confronting  one  another  of  neces- 
sity since  I  would  not  retreat  and  could  not  ad- 
vance until  summoned  to  enter  the  inner  office, 
and  he  did  not  choose  to  proceed  on  his  way  out. 
A  slight  change  was  obscurely  perceptible  in  his 
face,  a  muscular  relaxing.  He  greeted  me  with 
marked  courtesy,  extending  his  hand,  which  I 
did  not  notice.  I  felt  rather  than  saw  the  old 
ironical  smile  of  unruffled  composure,  even  of 
secret  amusement,  at  my  consternation. 


CHAP.  XXIV  [  296  ] 

"  It  is  a  great  pleasure  to  see  you  out  again, 
an  immense  relief,"  he  said,  and  bent  toward 
me,  Ms  courtliness  and  grace  rather  augmented 
by  the  strain  of  the  situation  than  disturbed. 

My  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  solid  oak  door 
beyond  him.  Would  it  never  open! 

"  You  have  given  us  profound  anxiety,  Mrs. 
Lloyd,  and  your  world  has  been  sadly  ennuye 
without  you.  Do  not  keep  us  waiting  much 
longer." 

The  consummate  hypocrisy  of  these  words 
filled  me  with  a  sudden  blaze  of  anger.  Fiery 
flames  of  it  seemed  to  vibrate  around  me  where 
I  stood,  and  I  looked  straight  into  the  face  of 
the  man  before  me  with  its  semblance  of  deli- 
cate devotion,  its  insulting  homage. 

Perhaps  Ross  Kimball  had  not  often  met  a 
look  in  which  lay  no  faintest  lurking  of  compro- 
mise, of  yielding  before  him,  or  of  fear.  His 
eyelids  fell,  then  rose  again,  and  his  eyes  swept 
me  with  one  swift  passing  glance  of  untutored 
savage  sincerity,  the  strangest  glance  I  ever  en- 
countered; so  fraught  with  the  passion  of  vin- 


[  297  ]  CHAP.  XXIV 

dictive  anger,  and  with  what  he  could  have 
called  the  passion  of  love.  He  was  in  that  in- 
stant at  once  the  seducer  and  the  avenger. 

"  Pardon  me,"  he  murmured  under  his 
breath,  moving  past  me.  Then  the  door  opened, 
the  page  made  a  motion  that  I  was  expected, 
and  I  passed  through  into  the  consulting  room, 
trembling  from  head  to  foot,  my  breath  almost 
failing  me. 

Dr.  Kirke  was  sitting  in  a  substantial  arm- 
chair before  a  substantial  desk,  his  head  in  pro- 
file bent  slightly  forward  as  he  wrote  rapidly 
in  a  notebook  before  him.  I  had  closed  the  door 
and  stepped  nearly  to  the  desk  before  he  glanced 
up  and  perceived  who  had  entered.  Taken  un- 
awares, without  time  for  reflection  or  control, 
light  leaped  into  his  face.  He  sprang  from  his 
chair  with  the  exclamation — "  You !  "  into  which 
a  whole  world's  significance  seemed  concen- 
trated, and  drew  me  with  one  strong  unpremed- 
itated movement  as  if  to  gather  me  to  his  heart. 

It  was  not  done  before  it  was  undone.  He 
had  marked  the  terror  in  my  face  and  the 


CHAP.  XXIV  [  298  ] 

tremor  in  my  limbs,  at  the  first  glance.  Doubt- 
less that  explained  his  involuntary  gesture.  I 
found  myself  in  another  instant  laid  in  a  deep 
Morris  chair,  with  salts  held  at  my  nostrils  and 
a  window  open  near  my  head  through  which  the 
good  cold  wind  blew  lustily. 

"  I  am  not  going  to  faint,"  I  said,  compass- 
ing a  smile. 

"You  may  if  you  want  to,"  he  said  indul- 
gently. "It  will  do  no  harm."  Then  as  my 
color  and  strength  came  swiftly  back  he  sud- 
denly exclaimed — 

"  Did  that  reptile  dare  to  speak  to  you,  Sid- 
ney?" 

I  nodded  without  speaking,  finding  it  in  no- 
wise strange  that  he  called  me  by  name  uncon- 
sciously. 

I  looked  up  into  his  heavily  lined  face,  the 
powerful  molding  of  the  features,  the  deeply 
sagged  eyes,  glowing  with  a  sudden  fire  under 
the  craglike  brow,  the  sudden  unwonted  paling 
of  the  skin.  This  was  an  angry  man  too.  But 
the  anger  of  that  other  had  been  assault;  this 


[  299  ]  CHAP.  XXIV 

man's  wrath  was  protection.  Irving  had  not 
been  angry  at  all  in  my  behalf,  although  he  had 
snarled  at  my  imprudence.  Dr.  Kirke  actually 
roared  in  an  outburst  of  fierce  and  uncontrol- 
lable indignation. 

"  God !  "  I  heard  him  say,  and  not  in  impre- 
cation, "what  did  I  save  that  man's  life  for? 
Oh,  let  him  die !  One  devil  is  enough." 

I  cried  quietly  while  he  raged  a  little  longer. 
What  it  meant  I  could  not  fathom,  for  how  could 
he  know?  But  at  least  he  knew  enough  to  pity 
and  protect  me,  to  despise  and  abhor  the  man 
who  had  slain  my  fair  name  and  would  have 
sunk  my  body  and  soul  in  hell  if  he  had  had  his 
way. 

Presently  calmness  fell. 

"  There,  that  will  do.  Don't  cry  any  more," 
the  Doctor  said  abruptly,  taking  a  seat  beside 
me  and  looking  at  his  watch.  "  There  is  no 
more  time  for  emotions ;  I  have  to  take  a  train 
at  five  thirty.  What  is  it?  " 

"  I  came  to  ask  you  one  question,  Dr.  Kirke, 
and  I  am  in  a  hurry  too,"  and  I  sat  up  with  sud- 


CHAP.  XXIV  [  3OO  ] 

den  energy.  "  It  is  about  this  going  South.  I 
want  to  know  whether  we  are  going  down  there 
on  account  of  Irving's  health  really  and  sin- 
cerely, and  because  it  is  necessary.  Or  whether 
we  are  running  away  like  cowards  because  we 
have  an  enemy  here  who  is  driving  us  out  and 
whom  we  are  afraid  of." 

The  Doctor  looked  fixedly  at  me  with  com- 
pressed lips,  his  head  dropped  slightly  forward. 
His  powerful  physiognomy  was  all  the  physi- 
cian's now.  His  eyes  were  clear  of  passion. 
After  a  perceptible  pause  he  said, 

"It  is  necessary  for  you  to  go.  That  is 
clear.  We  have  got  to  do  something  for  Ir- 
ving's health.  He  is  losing  ground  perceptibly 
as  things  are  now,  and  his  nervous  exhaustion 
reacts  unfavorably  upon  his  heart  action.  Con- 
ditions here  will  inevitably  increase  this  depres- 
sion. It  is  highly  important  to  get  him  away, 
and  Florida  is  a  pretty  good  place  on  the  whole, 
because  he  can  live  outdoors  and  potter  about 
in  an  orange-grove  until  he  is  stronger.  His 
lungs  are  none  too  good  either,  I  find.  But  with 


[  3O1  ]  CHAP.  XXIV 

the  change  he  may  have  the  best  of  his  life  still 
before  him." 

"Very  well,"  I  said  gravely,  rising  as  I 
spoke ;  "  I  am  willing  to  go  for  Irving's  sake ; 
there  is  nothing  I  could  not  do  for  that.  But 
I  flatly  refuse  to  go  for  fear  of  Boss  Kimball. 
He  has  done  his  worst  already." 

"  You  can  never  be  sure  of  that,"  said  Dr. 
Kirke,  advancing  to  open  the  door  for  me.  "  It 
is  much  better  for  you  both  to  be  away  from 
here." 

"  And  better  for  you  to  have  us  go,"  I  said 
a  little  sadly.  "  We  have  been  an  unmerciful 
bother  to  you." 

He  had  come  out  through  the  reception- 
room  beside  me  and  opened  the  outer  door  for 
my  exit.  He  made  no  response  for  an  instant, 
but  the  gravity  of  his  face  deepened  even  to 
melancholy. 

"Yes,  it  will  be  better,  as  you  say — better 
for  me.  Good  afternoon." 

I  came  out  upon  the  street,  caught  my  car, 
and  reached  home  just  before  six  o'clock.  Dr. 


CHAP.  XXIV  [  3O2  ] 

Kirke  had  agreed  only  too  easily  that  it  was 
better  for  him  that  we  should  go.  But  this 
ready,  unprotesting  assent  gave  my  heart  no 
painful  tumult,  but  rather  a  ground  swell  of 
nameless  joy. 

"Is  that  you,  Sidney?"  Irving  called  from 
the  dusky  depths  of  the  library  when  I  came 
into  the  house. 

"Your  time  is  nearly  up.  Have  you  come 
to  a  decision? " 

"  Yes,"  I  responded.  "  Let  us  take  the  house 
in  Borromeo,  Irving.  I  am  ready.  Nobody 
needs  us  here.  It  will  be  better  for  every  one 
that  we  should  go." 

The  next  morning  I  began  with  a  will  the 
sorting  over  of  boxes  and  drawers  with  a  view 
to  the  change  of  abode.  I  caught  myself  sing- 
ing a  snatch  of  song  and  deep  in  my  breast 
there  seemed  a  measureless  content.  I  did  not 
seek  to  find  its  source,  but  a  sense  of  a  silent, 
homely  man  with  a  watch-dog  faithfulness  and 
threatening,  somber  eyes,  standing  in  my  de- 
fense, never  left  me.  It  has  never  left  me  yet, 
waking  or  sleeping. 


[  3O3  ]  CHAP.  XXIV 

It  was  about  ten  o'clock,  I  think,  when  my 
maid  brought  me  a  white  box,  satin  smooth, 
ribbon-bound,  from  which  I  drew  an  enormous 
bunch  of  English  violets.  There  was  no  card. 
The  room  was  instantly  pervaded  with  their 
fragrance.  Delighted  I  hung  over  them,  enjoy- 
ing their  color  and  sweet  earthy  odor.  Who 
could  have  sent  them  to  me?  I  never  had  flow- 
ers nowadays  save  from  the  Kirkes.  These  did 
not  look  like  Sarah  in  the  least,  and  as  for 
the  Doctor,  he  would  be  as  likely  to  send  me 
French  novels  and  bonbons.  There  was  nothing 
Kirkesque  about  that  sumptuous  ribbon-bound 
box.  Suddenly  the  thought  darted  through  my 
mind  that  it  had  come  from  Ross  Kimball.  I 
knew  it  then  by  intuition  beyond  further  doubt. 
He  chose  quietly  to  ignore  my  anger,  my  repudi- 
ation, to  meet  my  resistance  and  my  scorn  with 
amused  forbearance.  Whatever  had  been  his 
previous  intention,  on  seeing  me  he  had  re- 
solved to  set  his  siege  again  in  action,  believing 
that  in  my  poverty,  my  humiliation,  my  obvious 
physical  weakness,  I  would  yet  yield.  Thus 


CHAP.  XXIV  [  3O4  ] 

would  both  passion  and  revenge  find  sufficient 
satisfaction.  Yes,  he  would  first  caress  and 
then  destroy.  I  walked  straight  to  the  window, 
then  threw  it  open  and  flung  the  violets  down  on 
the  snowy  pavement  below,  turned  back  with  a 
scornful  lip  and  went  on  with  my  work.  The 
box  I  broke  between  my  hands  and  threw  into  a 
heap  of  rubbish  which  was  mounting  into  pro- 
portions on  the  floor,  the  refuse  of  my  morn- 
ing's work. 

A  few  moments  later  I  was  impelled  to  go 
to  the  window  and  look  down.  The  violets  still 
lay  untouched  and  untrodden  on  the  pavement 
— a  superb  patch  of  color  on  the  snow.  There 
was  little  passing  on  our  quiet  street  at  this 
time  of  day.  But  as  I  looked  some  one  was  ap- 
proaching, a  young  man  with  a  plodding  step, 
a  pinched  face,  a  shabby  coat.  I  had  seen  him 
pass  often — he  lived  on  a  narrow  street  beyond 
ours — a  clerk  on  meager  wages  at  best  and  prob- 
ably out  of  work  altogether  now.  He  would  not 
be  going  down  street  at  this  hour  if  he  were  em- 
ployed. He  had  an  invalid  mother  at  home,  I 


[  3O5  ]  CHAP.  XXIV 

had  heard.  He  stopped,  seeing  the  violets  lying 
in  the  snow,  picked  them  up  quickly,  then  stood 
a  moment  looking  up  and  down  the  street.  No 
one  was  in  sight.  Slowly  a  smile  of  incredulous 
delight  came  into  his  face.  He  wrapped  the  vio- 
lets tenderly  in  his  handkerchief,  faced  about 
and  hurried  back  toward  home  with  a  quick, 
elastic  step. 

I  watched  him  out  of  sight,  and  my  eyes 
grew  dim.  I  knelt  then  as  I  did  sometimes  of 
late,  albeit  shyly  and  as  one  unused  to  God,  and 
prayed  that  out  of  all  that  was  wrong  and  un- 
clean love  and  joy  might  come  to  somebody, 
somewhere.  My  heart  seemed  touched  to  music. 
I  had  elected  religion. 


20 


XXV 

AT  first  I  think  our  prevailing  sense  in  our 
new  abode  in  Borromeo  was  of  its  temporary 
character.  It  was  a  tent  in  the  wilderness;  a 
hospice  in  which  we  had  taken  a  passing  refuge 
from  a  great  storm ;  a  wayside  inn  which  gave 
us  its  simple  and  friendly  shelter  in  our  time  of 
wandering.  Gradually,  however,  the  sense  that 
we  were  camping  out  wore  away,  and  in  six 
months  I  believe  Irving  and  I  felt  that  this  poor 
cabin  was  in  a  real  sense  our  home. 

The  house  stood  on  the  outskirts  of  the  town, 
on  a  street  of  somewhat  dubious  existence,  laid 
out  as  it  was,  amid  drifting  sand  and  the  harsh, 
scanty  grass,  into  which  it  altogether  lapsed 
farther  on.  Beyond  were  a  few  tall  pines  which 
we  loved,  and  still  beyond,  on  the  level  horizon 
line,  lay  the  sea.  The  salt  spray  reached  us 
when  the  wind  blew  from  the  east.  The  house 
stood  up  in  ugly  nakedness  on  four  corner- 


[  3O7  ]  CHAP.  XXV 

posts,  and  was  built  of  pine,  painted  a  merci- 
fully dull  green  outside,  and  not  at  all  within. 
But  it  was  perfectly  new,  we  being  its  first  in- 
mates, and  it  was  fresh  and  clean  and  sweet. 
The  living-room,  into  which  the  house  door 
opened,  was  severely  simple,  but  by  no  means 
uninviting,  with  its  big  rude  chimney-piece  and 
its  windows  looking  seaward.  We  had  brought 
one  good  rug  with  us,  a  box  of  books,  a  few 
favorite  pictures,  and  the  lounge  and  a  few 
chairs  from  the  home  library.  All  were  in  this 
room  and  besides  a  small  rack  of  shelves  for 
china  and  a  round  oak  dining-table  of  modest 
size,  which  served  alike  for  our  meals  and  our 
magazines,  since  this  was  dining-room  as  well 
as  hall,  parlor  and  library.  The  kitchen  was 
equipped  with  an  oil-stove,  a  cupboard,  a  table 
and  two  chairs.  The  sleeping-room  was  fur- 
nished with  equal  simplicity. 

Irving  felt  the  lack  of  luxury,  beauty  and 
comfort  more  than  I,  but  he  made  a  serious 
occupation  of  living  out  of  doors,  and  the 
orange  grove  which  he  laid  out  and  planted  be- 


CHAP.  XXV  [  3O8  ] 

hind  the  house  absorbed  much  of  his  time  and 
attention. 

We  were  now  in  the  ranks  of  honest  poverty, 
not  simply  so  by  comparison  with  people  of 
wealth,  but  actually  and  undeniably,  since  all 
that  we  possessed  outside  the  orange  grove  and 
house  produced  but  a  few  hundred  dollars  of 
interest  as  income.  My  chief  responsibility 
settled  into  two  prime  factors:  the  routine  of 
a  very  careful  housekeeping,  in  which  I  was 
myself  housekeeper  and  maid-of-all-work,  and 
the  conscientious  care  of  Irving's  health.  Dr. 
Kirke  had  instructed  me  carefully  regarding 
his  weak  points,  his  tendencies  and  his  needs. 
These  last  were  in  the  main  sunshine,  pure  air 
and  to  be  in  it  all  the  time,  sleeping  even  on  the 
veranda  when  possible;  pure  water;  an  abun- 
dance of  varied  and  nourishing  food;  a  com- 
plete absence  of  all  excitement,  worry  and  ner- 
vous stimulation. 

From  the  moment  when  I  had  perceived,  on 
that  darkest  day  of  our  wedded  lives,  that  Ir- 
ving had  no  firm,  essential  faith  in  my  faithful- 


[  3O9  ]  CHAP.  XXV 

ness,  and  that  compromise  on  my  part  with 
Ross  Kimball's  dishonorable  gallantries  would 
have  been  more  easily  condoned  by  him  than 
absolute  repulse — from  that  moment  he  had 
ceased  to  be  my  husband  according  to  the  vital 
and  inner  law  of  the  spirit.  He  remained  now 
and  hereafter  my  husband  only  by  the  law  of 
the  outer  commandment,  of  duty,  obligation  and 
sworn  faith.  I  experienced  no  resentment,  but 
something  infinitely  deeper  and  more  sorrowful 
in  this  hidden  moral  readjustment.  My  hus- 
band became  my  ward,  my  charge,  the  object  of 
all  my  life's  devotion,  which  could  never,  I  felt, 
atone  for  the  irreparable  injury  my  reckless 
dallying  with  temptation  had  brought  down 
upon  his  head.  All  the  more  because  the  inner 
and  spiritual  bond,  weak  perhaps  at  best,  was 
severed  now,  did  my  diligence  fail  in  no  small- 
est scruple  in  the  external  loyalty.  I  watched 
his  face  with  a  nurse's  eyes,  listened  to  his 
breathing  while  he  slept,  studied  the  caprices  of 
his  taste  and  appetite.  I  bore  as  my  just  pen- 
ance the  frequent  fits  of  despondence,  the  cheer- 


CHAP.  XXV  [  31O  ] 

less  fretting  over  small  details,  the  spiritless  re- 
pining, the  thinly  veiled  reproaches  which  had 
become  habitual  to  him,  brought  out  in  startling 
evidence  by  adversity,  as  an  obscure  design  in 
a  fabric  is  sometimes  brought  out  by  turning  it 
into  shadow.  Irving  had  lost  his  grip,  largely 
through  my  fault.  I  alone  could  bear  with  him 
now,  could  seek  to  comfort,  cheer  and  uphold. 
That  I  did  this  humbly,  without  wrath  or  doubt- 
ing, I,  with  my  proud,  passionate  and  impatient 
nature,  was  due  to  what  the  old  phraseology 
calls  "  divine  grace."  Surely  never  was  there  a 
sweeter  phrase  nor  an  apter. 

We  made  a  few  friends  in  Borromeo.  We 
did  not  want  many.  Chief  among  these  was  a 
young  Episcopal  rector  named  Loring,  a  gal- 
lant young  Knight  of  the  Holy  Grail,  who  had 
seen  the  Vision  and  set  out  on  the  Quest  and 
had  thus  far  suffered  no  loss  of  his  fine  illu- 
sions. For  this  I  loved  him,  I  who  had  lived 
so  long  without  the  Vision,  and  Irving  cared  for 
him  because  he  was  a  gentleman,  because  he 
could  lend  and  borrow  books  with  intelligent  en- 


[  311  ]  CHAP.  XXV 

thusiasm,  and  would  sometimes  go  a-fishing,  in 
the  non-apostolic  sense. 

Sometimes  there  would  come  a  morning 
when  these  two  would  start  off  together  to  be 
gone  the  day  and  perhaps  the  to-morrow  also. 
I  would  fill  their  straw  knapsacks  with  substan- 
tial food,  daintily  prepared,  for  Irving's  eye 
must  always  be  won  before  his  appetite ;  would 
watch  them  then  as  they  strode  through  the 
sand,  toward  the  sea,  until  they  turned  into  the 
strip  of  pine  wood  and  were  lost  to  sight.  Then 
I  would  drop  into  my  hammock  or  my  deck- 
chair  on  the  veranda  and  all  my  being  would 
relax,  eye  and  brain,  nerve  and  limb,  hand  and 
heart.  All  day  I  would  lie  like  that,  the  morn- 
ing cares  over,  for  my  dinner  would  be  a  bowl 
of  bread  and  milk,  my  supper  fruit  and  bread 
from  a  plate  held  in  my  hand.  And  so,  as  I 
watched  the  sea  through  the  silent  hours,  the 
high  tide  of  love  would  come  pouring  in,  sweep- 
ing up  through  every  bare  inlet  and  creek  and 
bay  and  drowning  out  from  memory  and  con- 
sciousness all  things  save  itself. 


CHAP.  XXV  [  312  ] 

The  man  who  had  said  he  loved  me  and  did 
not,  but  lusted  after  me,  had  said  that  I  was 
incapable  of  love,  that  I  would  never  forget  my- 
self in  a  great  emotion.  I  partly  believed  him 
then.  Now  I  knew  better,  for  in  days  like  these, 
when  duty  and  penance  seemed  for  a  little  space 
put  by,  self  and  sense  were  clean  forgotten,  and 
I  companied  solely  with  memories  of  the  man 
who  had  believed  in  me,  the  man  who  had  lifted 
me  up,  who  had  been  my  pilot  through  the 
storm.  That  he,  who  could  be  infinitely  gentle, 
could  also  be  as  rough  and  rugged  as  the  storm 
itself,  made  him  but  the  more  adorable.  In  all 
the  superficial  love  affairs  which  I  had  known  I 
had  loved  love,  the  being  loved,  the  excitement 
of  the  amorous  and  egotistic  instinct.  Now  at 
last,  at  thirty,  I  experienced  for  the  first  time  the 
majesty  and  the  mastery  of  a  mortal  passion,  and 
now  at  last  I  loved  my  lover,  witnessing  anew 
to  the  trenchant  maxim  of  La  Rochefoucauld. 
Albeit  for  proof  that  the  man  I  worshiped  was 
my  lover,  I  had  nothing  beyond  an  involuntary 
gesture,  a  single  word,  a  doubtful  phrase  with 


[  313  ]  CHAP.  XXV 

barest  chance  of  a  hidden  meaning,  and — per- 
sistent, unremitting  avoidance.  Meager  mate- 
rial indeed  with  which  to  build,  but  I  was  meek 
enough  now  not  to  ask  for  more.  I  am  not  sure 
that  I  wanted  Dr.  Kirke  to  love  me,  since  love 
would  only  mean  for  him  perpetual  renuncia- 
tion. I  only  asked  to  love  him.  This  I  dared  to 
do,  I,  Irving's  wife,  and  believed  it  did  me  no 
scathe,  since  this  love  in  its  essence  was  wholly 
spiritual,  not  carnal.  If  an  angel  from  Heaven 
had  rebuked  me,  calling  it  a  "  guilty  love,"  I 
should  have  faced  him  with  an  unflinching  Retro 
mihi.  I  knew  it  for  the  love  which  purified,  not 
that  which  defiled. 

As  the  months  passed  we  settled  more  and 
more  into  our  quiet  life,  and  felt  it  not  too  sim- 
ple after  all.  As  Irving  grew  stronger  he  grew 
less  irritable  and  despondent,  and  we  had  va- 
rious forms  of  sunshine  in  our  homely  cabin. 
He  began  to  take  hold  of  the  common  life  of 
Borromeo  with  a  certain  interest,  to  identify 
himself  with  the  ambitious  little  town.  Finding 
him  ready  to  stand  less  aloof  the  townspeople 


CHAP.  XXV  [  314  ] 

began  to  seek  Mm  out,  drawn  to  him  as  people 
always  were  by  his  personal  elegance  and  dis- 
tinction, his  very  marked  refinement  and  unob- 
trusive culture,  and  perhaps  yet  more  by  the 
pathos  of  the  melancholy  in  his  face,  so  much 
more  marked  I  saw  sadly  of  late,  in  spite  of  all 
my  contrite  ministration. 

All  this  was  very  good  for  Irving,  and  his 
health  improved  steadily.  He  decided  to  open 
an  office  as  architect  in  the  central  street  of  Bor- 
romeo.  Some  little  work  came  his  way  which 
we  both  enjoyed  greatly,  although  the  financial 
return  was  inconsiderable.  We  found  it  neces- 
sary that  spring  to  draw  somewhat  heavily 
upon  the  principal  which  we  had  invested,  since 
an  orange-grove  is  bound  to  be  an  arch-con- 
sumer for  a  few  years  before  it  can  become  a 
producer.  Still  we  were  not  seriously  troubled 
by  this,  especially  when  we  were  able  to  econo- 
mize more  closely  as  Irving's  firmer  health  per- 
mitted. 

When  the  summer  heats  came  on  we  were 
brave  at  first  to  bear  them,  to  compare  records, 


[  315  ]  CHAP.  XXV 

and  declare  one  day  and  another  of  a  tempera- 
ture far  lower  than  we  had  often  known  in 
Massachusetts.  But  as  I  watched  him  through 
July  I  saw  that  Irving  drooped  again  under  the 
continuous,  unintermitting  weight  of  humid 
heat.  With  hardly  a  day  for  deliberation,  he 
started  North,  protesting  much,  but  driven  forth 
by  my  inflexible  determination  and  my  auda- 
cious assurance  that  I  could  make  up  the  ex- 
pense in  some  way.  Oh,  I  knew  ways!  there 
was  no  need  to  worry.  I  packed  his  dress  suit 
in  his  trunk  and  told  him  of  it  only  as  he  was 
leaving. 

"  Go  in  for  a  gay  good  time,  dear.  You  will 
be  wanted  everywhere;  accept  invitations;  it 
will  do  you  good." 

And  so  it  proved.  Irving's  letters  came  back 
filled  with  very  frank  and  manifest  delight  in 
the  welcome  he  found  waiting.  He  met  it  first 
of  all  in  New  York,  where  he  ventured  to  call 
upon  Mr.  Hook,  the  architect.  He  had  found 
him  in  and  delighted  to  see  him.  He  had  praised 
his  work  on  the  Kimball  house  most  generously. 


CHAP.  XXV  [  316  ] 

He  had  spoken  of  our  coming  eventually  to 
settle  in  New  York ;  had  as  good  as  said  that  he 
could  put  plenty  of  business  in  his  way  if  he 
should  decide  to  do  so.  Then  it  had  been  home, 
and  to  the  old  clubs  and  haunts.  "  By  Jove, 
Sidney,"  he  wrote,  "  it  almost  seems  as  if  every- 
thing we  suffered  and  feared  had  been  a  mon- 
strous delusion.  The  whole  flurry  is  over  now 
and  forgotten.  I  never  had  such  a  royal  wel- 
come. All  the  men  who  were  in  town  seem  bent 
on  treating  me  like  a  foreign  prince.  You  never 
saw  anything  like  it.  Every  one  comments  on 
my  looks.  They  say  I  have  grown  so  muscular 
and  vigorous.  And  they  all  ask  for  you  and 
seem  so  anxious  to  have  you  come  back — why, 
I  have  yards  of  invitations  for  visits  for  you. 
I  saw  Kirke  yesterday  and  told  him  what  a 
grand  nurse  you  had  turned  out.  Of  course,  he 
didn't  say  anything.  You  know  he  never  does, 
but  he  seemed  pleased  I  thought.  Sometimes  it 
makes  my  eyes  dim  when  I  think  how  my  poor 
girl  felt  herself  sent  to  Coventry  here  less  than 
a  year  ago.  I  know  everybody  who  fell  in  with 


[  317  ]  CHAP.  XXV 

that  sort  of  thing  is  dead  ashamed  of  it  now. 
The  Kimballs,  thank  Heaven !  are  in  Alaska.  I 
wish  they  would  stay  there.  Never  mind,  maybe 
we'll  come  back  some  time,  after  the  grove  gets 
to  bearing,  and  hold  up  our  heads  again  with  the 
rest.  What  if  we  could  even  buy  back  the  dear 
old  house !  I  passed  it  yesterday,  and  threw  a 
kiss  up  to  your  window." 

Irving  returned  to  Borromeo  in  October, 
looking  brown  and  hearty.  I  had  a  fine  sur- 
prise for  him.  I  was  teaching  in  the  Academy, 
having  taken  a  position  a  month  before  at  a 
very  fair  salary.  I  liked  the  work  and  found 
I  could  do  it  as  well  as  not.  Our  housekeeping 
was  so  very  simple,  and  easier  than  ever  if  Ir- 
ving were  in  good  appetite  and  condition.  He 
demurred  vigorously  at  first,  but  I  convinced 
him  that  the  teaching  was  perfectly  manageable 
for  me.  Soon  I  perceived  that  secretly  it  was 
an  immense  relief  to  him.  He  had  found  money 
fairly  melting  away  while  he  was  North,  and 
had  been  forced  to  ravage  his  bank  account. 
You  couldn't  turn  around  without  handing  out 


CHAP.  XXV  [  318  ] 

a  dollar,  he  said,  and  of  course  you  couldn't  air 
your  poverty  before  the  men  in  the  clubs  and 
the  fellows  who  took  you  to  their  houses. 

"  It  will  be  all  right,  dear,"  I  assured  him 
confidently.    "  Didn't  I  tell  you  I  knew  a  way !  " 


XXVI 

DECEMBER  again.  Two  years  since  we  came 
first  to  Borromeo.  It  is  a  raw  and  windy  night 
with  frequent  gusts  of  chilly  rain;  twilight  is 
falling  early. 

I  have  remained  late  at  the  schoolhouse,  for 
the  holidays  are  near  at  hand,  and  much  extra 
work  is  involved  by  an  approaching  Christmas 
festival.  I  have  no  need  to  hurry  home,  for  no 
one  will  be  waiting  for  me  there.  I  set  out  for 
my  mile  walk,  my  netted  bag  of  books  and  exer- 
cises to  be  corrected  during  the  evening  hang- 
ing from  my  arm.  It  is  a  lonely  walk,  and  the 
twilight  in  which  I  start  will  be  dusk  ere  I  reach 
home. 

A  year  ago  when  I  took  this  same  walk  I 
used  not  to  take  it  alone,  for  Irving  would  al- 
ways meet  me  somewhere  on  the  way,  often  at 
the  schoolhouse  door,  and  we  would  stride  on 


CHAP.  XXVI  [  32O  ] 

together  like  the  good  comrades  in  the  folk-song. 
Kind  and  dear  Irving  had  been  all  the  winter 
long,  and  was  growing  dearer.  We  thought, 
too,  ever  stronger.  It  had  been  a  happy  winter, 
bringing  fresh  heart  and  hope  to  both  of  us  and 
clean,  honest  work  and  wages,  without  fear  or 
favor  of  any  man.  But  in  March  Irving  had 
not  seemed  so  strong.  His  work  tired  him,  and 
he  was  discouraged  by  the  great  "  freeze  "  which 
ruined  half  of  his  young  trees,  just  fairly 
started  after  long  tending.  It  was  hard  to  have 
to  be  away  from  him  then  through  the  hours  of 
school,  but  it  could  not  be  helped.  Our  resources 
had  been  so  drained  that  now  the  interest  had 
dwindled  to  a  pitifully  small  amount,  and  if  I 
broke  off  Irving  could  not  have  the  costly  food 
he  craved  and  required.  I  must  teach  long  hours 
every  day.  I  do  not  know  always  how  those 
days  were  spent  in  March,  when  the  weather 
was  bleak  and  depressing,  and  he  could  not 
go  beyond  the  narrow  walls  of  the  little  house. 
I  know  they  must  have  been  drearily  monot- 
onous with  such  scant  resources  as  were  at  our 


[  321  ]  CHAP.  XXVI 

disposal,  but  he  made  no  complaint.  There  were 
so  many  people  in  Borromeo  who  had  much  the 
same  languid  tediousness  to  bear,  so  many  who 
had  been  worsted  in  life,  moreover.  I  think  Ir- 
ving came  to  feel  that  he  was  not  the  most  cru- 
elly buffeted  of  men.  Mr.  Loring  was  our  best 
friend  and  standby.  All  through  that  last 
month  he  went  very  often  during  school  hours 
and  played  cribbage,  which  he  despised,  with 
Irving,  talked  and  read  with  him  and  kept  up  his 
spirits. 

The  thing  which  happened  at  last  was  what 
none  of  us  had  yet  foreseen.  It  was  early  in 
April.  We  were  fearing  for  his  lungs,  as  he 
coughed  at  night  and  lost  flesh  perceptibly ;  the 
slow  wasting  of  consumption  was  ever  before 
my  eyes  as  a  thing  which  might  follow.  But  it 
was  not  to  be.  Swift  and  sudden  a  heart  sei- 
zure came  upon  him  in  the  early  morning  when 
we  were  quite  alone.  I  used  all  the  measures 
and  medicines  with  which  Dr.  Kirke  had  pro- 
vided me,  called  a  neighbor,  when  I  could  leave 
for  a  moment,  and  sent  for  a  physician  and  Mr. 

21 


CHAP.  XXVI  [  332  ] 

Loring.     Even  then  Irving  was  unconscious, 
and  the  end  came  very  soon. 

We  did  not  talk  of  going  North  for  the  burial. 
There  was  no  money  for  such  a  journey  nor  any 
motive  power.  My  work  and  my  home  were  in 
Borromeo ;  the  people  had  loved  Irving  here  and 
they  loved  me  also.  So  we  laid  him  that  spring 
morning  in  the  quiet  Southern  cemetery,  with 
a  great  live  oak  bending  near  as  if  in  yearning, 
while  from  afar  palm-trees  lifted  their  branches 
to  the  sky  for  victory.  I  used  before  that  to 
wonder  that  women  went  to  the  graves  of  their 
dead  to  weep  there ;  it  seemed,  I  had  thought,  a 
weak,  faint-hearted,  faithless  clinging  to  the  clay. 
I  shall  never  think  that  again.  Irving  had  be- 
come like  my  son  rather  than  my  husband  in 
that  last  year  of  tenderness  and  devotion.  A 
mother  does  not  expect  her  son  to  be  faultless, 
as  the  wife  does  her  husband ;  she  knows  all,  and 
her  love  can  sustain  all.  And  so,  as  a  mother 
yearns  over  the  grave  of  her  child,  I  yearned 
over  the  grave  of  my  husband  with  outgoing, 
faithful  tenderness,  and  for  his  sake  and  the 


[  323  ]  CHAP.  XXVI 

beauty  which  he  so  longed  for  everywhere,  I 
made  it  beautiful  with  flowers.  People  were 
wonderfully  kind,  and  Mr.  Loring  mourned 
with  me  sincerely  and  with  a  sufficing  sympathy, 
which  I  was  by  no  means  minded  to  reject.  For 
mine  was  not  a  comfortless  or  a  consuming 
grief,  although  it  held  its  own  unnamable  an- 
guish. I  took  up  my  life  and  went  on  with  it 
quite  simply.  It  was  needful  that  I  should 
work,  and  my  place  in  the  Academy  awaited  me. 
I  found  that  I  was  still  clear  in  mind,  and  sound 
in  body;  equal  to  my  task  now  so  sadly  sim- 
plified. All  those  who  knew  me  urged  that  I 
should  not  live  alone,  but  I  knew  that  alone  I 
was  best  content. 

As  the  months  passed  I  began  to  find  a  quite 
indescribable  satisfaction  in  the  life  I  lived,  its 
simplicity,  its  monotony,  its  very  poverty.  I 
dwelt  now  day,  by  day  with  the  two  supreme 
lords  of  life — Love  and  Death,  and  I  was  spir- 
itualized and  purified  by  their  companionship. 

In  my  girlhood  and  in  the  years  following  I 
had  been  deeply  if  delicately  sensuous.  Per- 


CHAP.  XXVI  [  334  ] 

fume,  color,  texture,  food  must  be  of  exquisite 
and  elaborate  refinement,  and  in  them  all  I  rev- 
eled in  a  kind  of  languid  ecstasy.  I  had  been 
an  idolater,  an  idolater  of  my  own  body,  an 
idolatry  so  subtle  yet  so  gross  that  fire-worship 
becomes  sublime  in  comparison. 

Now  I  had  no  personal  luxuries  beyond  a 
portable  bath  and  abundance  of  clean  linen;  a 
book,  an  easy  chair,  a  rose  or  a  spray  of  jessa- 
mine; I  wore  the  simplest  and  most  unadorned 
of  clothing  both  outer  and  inner ;  my  fare  was 
wholesome,  but  of  the  cheapest;  my  day  was 
that  of  a  working  woman  going  forth  to  her 
labor  until  sunset ;  my  house,  my  bed,  my  board 
were  solitary.  Such  a  life  would  once  have 
seemed  to  me  as  intolerable  as  the  life  of  a 
convict  or  a  miner,  but  into  it  I  now  infused  the 
same  ardor  which  in  the  old  days  I  had  infused 
into  the  life  of  material  luxury.  I  was  enamored 
of  poverty  and  chastity,  of  my  austere  solitude, 
my  ascetic  and  ordered  severity  of  life.  Like  a 
draught  of  cold  pure  water  this  discipline 
seemed  to  quench  the  restless  fever  in  my  spirit. 


[  325  ]  CHAP.  XXVI 

I  sought  to  adopt  the  practise  of  good  deeds, 
as  it  belonged  essentially  now  to  my  scheme  of 
things,  but  involuntarily  heart  and  flesh  cried 
out  that  these  might  not  assume  the  shape  of 
taking  into  my  house  some  alien  creature,  how- 
ever deserving,  who  would  bring  disorder  and 
discord  into  its  simple  low-toned  harmony. 

It  will  be  perceived,  therefore,  that  to-night 
as  I  walk  homeward  alone  in  my  black  gown  and 
small  black  bonnet,  tied  widow-wise  below  my 
chin,  the  rain  and  wind  beating  into  face  and 
eyes,  the  twilight  deepening  around  me,  I  am 
not  heavy-hearted,  acutely  lonely  and  unhappy, 
or  altogether  to  be  pitied. 

Never  in  my  days  of  "  virgin  liberty  "  has 
my  step  been  firmer  or  more  elastic.  My  phys- 
ical health  is  perfect,  and  many  of  my  spiritual 
wounds  are  healed.  So  I  come  within  sight  of 
my  small  dark  cabin  with  the  shading  of  the  low 
grove  of  young  trees  behind,  and  the  sparse 
faded  grass  before  and  presently  I  am  aware 
that  a  red  spark  of  light  is  moving  slowly  and 
evenly  back  and  forth  along  the  narrow  strip  of 


CHAP.  XXVI  [  326  ] 

walk  leading  up  to  the  veranda  step.  A  moment 
later  I  can  discern  through  the  dim  dusk  a  man's 
form.  Some  one  is  waiting  for  me  then. 

A  nameless  dread  and  danger,  the  possibil- 
ity of  which  never  quite  leaves  me,  pierces 
through  my  thoughts,  and  I  stand  still  where  I 
am,  in  the  rain. 

Could  this  be  the  man  I  fear  most?  Can  it 
be  Ross  Kimball  come  again  to  pursue  and  to 
besiege  me  in  my  def enselessness  I 

My  heart  beats  violently,  my  breath  quick- 
ens, but  I  start  on  again.  A  moment  more  must 
decide.  At  least  I  will  not  play  the  coward  with- 
out cause.  When  I  reach  my  gate  the  stranger 
stands,  his  back  to  the  darkness  of  the  veranda, 
and  seeing  me  comes  with  deliberate  step  down 
the  walk.  My  hand  is  taken  in  a  strong  and 
reassuring  grasp. 


xxvn 

"DR.  KIRKE!" 

(Joy,  be  merciful  and  stay  thy  hand!) 
"  Yes,  the  Doctor,  come  once  more  to  tor- 
ment you!  Tell  me  that  I  have  not  begun  by 
frightening  you.  It  never  occurred  to  me  that 
I  might  have  a  ghoulish  air,  lurking  like  this 
about  your  door." 

"  Not  now,  since  I  have  seen  your  face." 
"  It  was  not  to  have  been  dark,  you  see,  when 
you  appeared.    You  take  an  unmercifully  long 
time  to  come  from  that  Academy.    I  have  paced 
your  hurricane  deck  since  five  o'clock." 

"  How  dreadful,  and  you  must  have  been  so 
long  on  the  way." 

"  Yes,  two  years.    But  they  have  not  been  as 
long  as  this  last  hour." 

"  It  must  have  been  most  discouraging." 
"  I  thought  I  had  timed  things  particularly 


CHAP.  XXVII  [  338  ] 

well,  supposing  five  o'clock  the  time  when  all 
good  Christian  teachers  sought  their  own 
abodes." 

"  God  rest  ye  merry  gentleman,  not  at  Christ- 
mas time!  Will  you  come  in?  The  door  is 
open  now." 

"  Perhaps  you  would  better  go  first.  I  am  a 
little  afraid  of  the  dark." 

The  sputter  of  a  match  was  held  in  the  Doc- 
tor's hand.  I  hastened  in  before  him,  lifted  the 
porcelain  globe  from  the  lamp  on  the  table,  and 
there  was  light.  Pine  sticks  were  laid  ready 
across  the  andirons  with  slivers  of  pine  below. 
I  touched  them  with  a  match  and  presently  the 
flames  of  a  hearth  fire  curled  upward,  a  puff  of 
fragrant  piny  smoke  issuing  into  the  room. 

"  Ah,  what  a  capital  place  you  have  made 
of  it !  It  is  amazing,  remembering  it  as  I  saw 
it  first.  But  I  foresaw  this  too,  in  part.  Given 
a  fireplace  and  a  woman " 

"  Yes.  But  please  take  off  your  coat  first 
of  all.  Is  it  wet!  See,  I  will  hang  it  here. 
When  did  you  reach  Borromeo ! " 


[  329  ]  CHAP.  XXVII 

"  I  do  not  quite  know ;  just  before  I  reached 
here.  There  is  a  difficulty  which  I  fear  to  own 
about  taking  off  my  coat." 

"And  what  is  it?" 

He  looked  at  me  with  a  comic  lifting  of  the 
brows,  humble  and  pleading. 

"Lady,  I  am  a  famished  man!  Have  you 
ever  been  on  a  Southern  accommodation  train 
for  eight  hours  t  " 

"  And  you  think  I  can  not  give  you  supper? 
If  that  is  the  difficulty  decide  to  remain,  I  beg, 
at  once." 

"  If  you  had  come  at  five,  you  see,  all  would 
have  been  well.  I  should  have  returned  betimes 
to  the  Borromeo  House,  but  now— 

"  Now  you  will  stay  at  my  house,  please." 

I  was  already  preparing  to  lay  the  cloth  on 
the  round  table  drawn  before  the  fire.  A  sud- 
den misgiving  made  me  put  my  finger  to  my  lip. 

"Well,  what  is  it?  Have  you  not  food 
enough  in  the  larder  for  such  a  hungry  tramp 
as  I?  I  do  not  require  much.  Give  me  simply 
such  anchorite's  fare  as  you  were  going  to  give 


CHAP.  XXVII  [  33O  ] 

yourself.  A  toothsome  veal  pasty  with  a  haunch 
of  venison,  a  brace  of  pheasants  and  plenty  of 
good  Rhenish  to  wash  it  down  will  suffice." 

"  Do  you  ever  eat — rice  flakes  ?  " 

The  Doctor  shook  his  head  despondently. 

"  I  was  going  to  have  them  for  my  piece  de 
resistance,  with  bread  au  beurre,  and  tea  au 
citron.  Will  you  take  the  same?  " 

"  I'll  be  hanged  if  I  will,"  contemplatively. 
"  What  bird-seed  women  do  live  on  if  they  dare ! 
You  need  a  beefsteak  this  minute.  You  look 
objectionably  like  the  Lady  Superior  of  a  con- 
vent." 

"  Oh,  you  are  going  back  to  the  hotel !  Dr. 
Kirke,  I  have  just  thought !  I  can  cook  you  two 
eggs,  new  laid  too,  pure  as  pearls,  fabulous 
things  at  Christmas  time  in  Florida!  Won't 
you  stay  ?  " 

"  No,  but  I  will  return.  I  am  going  to  get 
that  beefsteak.  Will  you  broil  it,  Mrs.  Lloyd?  " 

"  Gladly."    The  door  closed. 

It  was  rapid  work.  When  he  returned,  the 
thick  porterhouse,  such  as  I  had  not  seen  in 


[  331  ]  CHAP.  XXVII 

many  months,  wrapped  in  brown  paper  under 
his  arm,  the  table  was  set  with  all  my  best 
array,  coffee  was  made,  potatoes  cooked  brown, 
bread  toasted,  and  a  great  bed  of  live  coals  lying 
ready. 

When  I  sat  down  opposite  him  at  the  table 
a  little  later  and  grew  bold  to  look  fully  into  his 
face  I  saw  that  he  looked  wretchedly  worn  and 
jaded,  in  spite  of  the  massive  modeling  of  his 
features.  Much  of  this  may  have  been  hunger, 
for  when  the  meal  was  over  I  marked  an  access 
of  firmness  in  line  and  color.  The  table  cleared, 
I  drew  armchairs  near  the  fire  and  we  sat  down 
together,  all  the  badinage  with  which  we  had 
bridged  over  the  first  sharp  emotion  of  meeting 
dying  away.  For  an  hour  we  talked  only  of  Ir- 
ving and  all  that  preceded  his  death;  rather  I 
talked  and  Dr.  Kirke  listened  with  grave  and 
mournful  interest. 

I  spoke  of  the  kindness  and  sympathy  of  all 
our  friends,  both  here  in  Borromeo  and  in  the 
North.  Letters  had  been  veritably  a  comfort. 
I  never  dreamed  how  truly  such  they  could  be. 


CHAP.  XXVII  [  333  ] 

Miss  Kirke's  had  been,  of  all,  the  best;  his  also 
had  been  most  kind.  They  had  numbered  (but 
this  I  did  not  say)  in  all,  precisely  two. 

"  It  is  strange,"  Dr.  Kirke  commented,  his 
eyes  with  their  old  musing  quietness  resting 
upon  my  face,  "how  you  have  grown  younger 
under  it  all.  You  are  thinner,  to  be  sure,  but 
you  look  younger  than  you  did  the  first  time  I 
saw  you — in  a  way  more  girlish.  There  has 
been  a  very  rare  transformation."  He  seemed 
to  be  speaking  to  himself  rather  than  to  me,  I 
thought. 

"  The  first  time  you  ever  saw  me  you  said 
something  very  strange  of  me — very  awful,"  I 
said  sadly.  "  I  have  always  hoped  you  would 
unsay  it  some  time." 

"  I  was  not  aware  of  saying  anything  for 
you  to  hear.  But  the  first  time  I  saw  you,  you 
did,  in  fact,  remind  me  of  a  picture  by  some  Pre- 
raffaelite  painter  which  I  saw  once  in  Wil- 
mington." 

"  Lilith.  I  have  seen  a  replica  since  in  Lon- 
don." 


[  333  ]  CHAP.  XXVII 

He  nodded  gravely,  but  his  eyes  smiled. 

"  Now  you  remind  me  of  Dante's  Beatrice. 
I  mean  as  I  think  of  her.  No  one  has  truly 
painted  her." 

"  Oh,  no,  no.  You  are  quite  mistaken  in  me 
if  you  think  that.  It  is  a  long  way  from  Lilith 
to  Beatrice." 

"  You  are  far  more  Beatrice  now  than  ever 
you  were  Lilith,  at  least.  Lilith  was  the  Ewig- 
weibliche,  sinking  to  the  mere  body  of  woman's 
beauty  and  charm.  Beatrice  is  the  woman  es- 
sence rising  to  her  ideal  place — some  one  says  it 
better ;  the  '  soul  of  humanity  regaining  full  in- 
tuition of  God.' " 

Slow  tears  rose  in  my  eyes  and  I  shook  my 
head,  unable  to  speak,  to  make  further  denial. 

Dr.  Kirke  leaned  forward  then  and  took 
both  my  hands  in  his  and  drew  me  toward  him 
with  a  gentle,  resistless  strength. 

"  What  pedants  to  sit  quarreling  here  over 
Curious  Myths  of  the  Middle  Ages !  I  do  not 
care  what  you  are  like,  Sidney,  so  you  are  like 
yourself.  I  love  you,  and  it  is  for  my  wife  I 


CHAP.  XXVII  [  334  ] 

love  you  and  want  you.  I  have  come  to  Bor- 
romeo  to  tell  you  so.  Tell  me,  my  girl,  can  I 
win  you  ? " 

Soul  and  body  yielded  to  his  presence  and 
power  for  one  unspeakable  moment.  Then  I 
drew  away  from  his  hands,  from  the  arms  which 
would  have  gathered  me  wholly  to  his  heart. 

"  No,"  I  said  and  rose  from  my  chair,  stand- 
ing where  I  could  rest  an  elbow  on  the  pine  chim- 
ney-shelf. "  It  is  great  and  good — it  is  like  you 
— to  think  of  this,  but  it  can  not  be." 

"  It  can  not !  "  with  a  falling  cadence  of  poig- 
nant distress.  He  had  risen  too  and  stood  fac- 
ing me  with  those  somber,  threatening  eyes,  like 
Barbarossa's. 

"  No,  never.  But  it  is  enough  for  me  that 
you  could  desire  such  a  thing — could  dream  that 
I  could  be  worthy  of — love  like  yours." 

"  It  may  be  enough  for  you.  It  is  not  by 
any  means  enough  for  me.  I  have  lived  in 
dreams  and  de'sires  long  enough.  I  want  reali- 
ties now.  I  have  heard  your  answer.  Forgive 
me,  but  I  can  not  accept  it  peacefully,  submis- 


[  335  ]  CHAP.  XXVII 

sively.  I  came  here  for  you — no,  not  for  you. 
Think  once  more,  Sidney,  before  you  send  me 
away  like  this." 

"  I  must  not  think.  You  must  not  let  me 
change !  "  I  murmured  confusedly. 

"It  is  no  new  thing,  no  sudden  fancy,  no 
reasonable,  considered  purpose  that  has  brought 
me  here.  Men  of  my  age  sometimes  think  it 
wise  to  marry,  and  select  complacently  from 
their  acquaintance  the  woman  who  seems  best 
to  serve  their  turn.  I  would  not  importune  you, 
Sidney,  like  a  craven,  querulous  fool  if  I  had 
come  like  that.  No!  Listen  to  me.  For  two 
years,  for  more  than  that  and  never  for  one  in- 
stant of  conscious  thought,  have  you  been  absent 
from  my  mind.  Before  that  I  did  not  trouble 
about  you  much.  You  had  a  strange  charm  for 
me,  but  I  own  I  did  not  like  you  altogether,  did 
not  approve  you  for  Irving's  wife.  Then  cer- 
tain causes  led  me  to  a  passing  interest  and 
concern  in  your  affairs  and  I  occupied  myself 
with  you  in  a  moderate  degree.  Afterward  I 
found  your  life  possibly,  your  reason  certainly, 


CHAP.  XXVII  [  336  ] 

your  redemption  perchance,  in  serious  danger — 
all  seemed  pressed  upon  me  for  rescue.  But  to 
me  you  were  hot,  haughty,  rebellious  of  control, 
determined  never  to  yield  your  secret,  or  sub- 
mit your  will.  I  began  to  see  the  devilish  forces 
arrayed  against  you ;  then  the  power,  the  pathos 
of  your  strange  organization;  the  artistic  and 
sensuous  all  to  the  fore,  the  moral  in  abeyance, 
but  awakening;  I  saw  the  tremendous  struggle 
you  were  waging,  and  would  yet  wage ;  the  god- 
dess-like sorrow  you  suffered  over  your  own  in- 
firmity. All  the  manhood  in  me  enlisted  in  your 
defense.  But  see!  While  I  was  thinking  my- 
self strong  to  be  your  champion,  your  shield 
and  defender,  suddenly  one  day,  you,  all  uncon- 
sciously, rose  and  wounded  my  sword-arm  and 
well-nigh  threw  me.  I  found  that  I  loved  you, 
I  who  had  no  right.  The  battle  was  turned  and 
it  was  with  myself  I  have  had  first  of  all  to  fight 
in  your  behalf,  from  that  November  day  at  twi- 
light when  I  saw  you  wholly  brought  to  bay; 
your  reason  itself  imperiled,  until  now.  I  found 
you  white  and  shaken,  do  you  remember? — lift- 


[  337  ]  CHAP.  XXVII 

ing  eyes  of  strange  and  awful  boding  to  my  face, 
the  great,  wounded,  beaten  soul  pleading  from 
them  for — something,  I  knew  not  what." 

"  A  pilot.  I  had  prayed,"  I  whispered.  He 
flashed  a  look  of  comprehension  in  my  face,  then 
bent  his  head  with  gentlest  reverence,  and  in  the 
silence  I  saw  what  I  had  never  seen  before:  a 
strong  man's  tears.  From  head  to  foot  I  trem- 
bled before  him,  but  still  I  stood  my  ground. 
He  gave  me  one  glance  then,  gathered  himself 
together,  and  shook  his  head  impatiently  back- 
ward. 

"  You  can  not  love  me !  I  can  not  wonder. 
I  am  harsh,  homely,  clumsy,  graceless,  a  very 
Vulcan  of  a  man.  What  should  a  girl  like  you 
find  to  love  in  me  I "  He  turned  away  from  me 
and  paced  the  floor.  The  pathetic  bending  of 
his  powerful  head  as  to  a  yoke  of  sorrow,  the 
mighty  shoulders  suddenly  seeming  to  express 
the  burden  of  a  weight  of  care,  produced  an  ef- 
fect which  I  could  not  wholly  withstand. 

"  You  shall  have  my  reason,"  I  said  steadily, 

forcing  myself  to  calmness ;  "  but  when  I  have 
22 


CHAP.  XXVII  [  338  J 

told  you  what  it  is,  and  that  it  must  be  final — 
then,  Dr.  Kirke,  will  you  promise  me  that  you 
will  go  away  and  leave  me !  It  is  late,  you  see, 
almost  ten." 

"  Perfectly  right,"  he  said  with  brief  assent, 
"  I  will  go.  You  should  have  ordered  me  out  be- 
fore. Speak,  please." 

He  stood  then  at  a  short  distance,  the  table 
with  its  lamp  and  books  and  papers  between  us. 
His  hands  were  behind  him;  his  head  dropped 
forward;  thought  sat  heavily  upon  his  brow, 
which  was  yet  calm,  judicial.  It  was  thus  the 
Doctor  looked,  I  knew,  when  a  case  of  mortal 
issue  lay  before  him. 

"  I  can  not  be  your  wife  because  I  love  you 
too  much — have  loved  you  all  the  way.  If  I 
loved  you  less  I  could  be  your  wife." 

"And  now? " 

"  I  will  not." 

He  bowed  as  if  in  submission,  but  a  change 
swifter  than  a  lightning-flash  passed  over  him. 
Sudden  power  and  illumination  proceeded  from 
his  form  and  face.  The  homely,  careworn,  bur- 


[  339  ]  CHAP.  XXVII 

dened  man  who  had  been  pleading  with  me  as 
for  his  life  became  imposing,  splendid,  awe-in- 
spiring. He  pleaded  no  more. 

"  You  will  not,  but  I  will,"  his  look  plainly 
said.  However,  aloud  he  said  simply,  "  Good 
night.  May  I  see  you  for  a  little  while  before 
I  leave,  to-morrow  night?  " 

"  You  start  back  then  so  soon? " 

"  Yes,  by  the  eleven  o'clock  train.  May  I 
come  about  eight? " 

"Yes,  or  earlier.  I  shall  be  in  school  all 
day,  or  I  would  see  you  sooner." 

"  I  shall  do  very  well.  I  mean  to  ask  that 
young  preacher  you  like  so  much,  Irving's 
friend " 

"  Mr.  Loring." 

"Yes.  I  had  forgotten  the  name.  I  shall 
get  him  if  I  can  to  go  out  with  me  for  the  day 
in  somebody's  sailboat." 

"  That  is  good.  You  will  enjoy  it,  and  I  know 
he  will  be  glad  to  go.  Good  night." 


XXVIII 

"  PRODUCE  your  reasons  I " 

The  night  was  as  mild  as  in  a  Northern  Sep- 
tember; the  sky  was  brilliant  with  stars.  "We 
had  walked  together  through  the  pines  and  be- 
yond us  now  lay  the  sand  barrens  and  the  sea, 
with  its  long  withdrawing  roar.  Over  it,  east- 
ward, hung  the  young  moon,  an  inverted  cres- 
cent. 

"  My  reasons  are  chiefly  three,  but  the  first 
one  alone  is  enough.  We  need  not  touch  the 
others." 

"  The  first  then." 

"  Dr.  Kirke,  I  love  you  too  much  to  let  you 
marry,  if  I  can  help  it,  a  woman  with  a  tarnished 
name." 

Plainly  this  was  anticipated.  An  indefinable 
slackening  of  the  tension  in  him  followed. 

"  That  is  your  first  worst.    I  weigh  it  in  the 


[  341  ]  CHAP.  XXVIII 

balance  and  pronounce  it — naught.  Your  name 
to-day,  my  girl,  is  clean,  every  whit.  You  have 
sailed  a  gallant  course,  and  your  friends  have 
watched  you." 

He  felt  an  involuntary  grateful  touch  then 
on  his  hand,  but  it  was  gone  when  he  would  have 
stayed  it. 

"  But,  Dr.  Kirke,  that  is  only  the  outer  rim 
of  the  trouble.  The  real  trouble  is — I  have  not 
been  a  good  woman.  You  do  not  know  and  you 
shall  now.  Then  you  will  see." 

"I  fear  nothing  you  can  tell  me,  Sidney. 
Say  on." 

There  was  a  pause. 

"May  I  tell  you  slowly,  with  some  things 
far  back  in  the  past?  " 

"As  slowly  as  you  will,  dear  child.  See, 
here  is  a  fallen  tree.  Will  you  sit  down?  " 

"I  do  not  want  to  keep  back  anything.  I 
can  not  bear  it  to  find  how  much  better  you  think 
me  than  I  am." 

Another  brief  silence.    Then  I  began  slowly. 

"  I  saw  a  half -burned  sheet  of  paper  one  day 


CHAP.  XXVIII  [  342  ] 

— useless,  meaningless,  scorched,  shriveled  as  it 
lay  in  the  ashes.  You  know  how  it  would  look." 

"  I  know." 

"  It  was  when  I  was  at  your  house  that  I  saw 
how  my  life  was  like  that.  I  saw  that  I  had  been 
through  the  fire  and  was  spoiled  for  beauty  and 
purity  and  noble  service.  I  remember  asking 
myself  over  and  over  in  what  fire  my  soul  had 
been  burned.  My  mind  was  weak ;  my  spiritual 
vision  weaker  yet.  I  could  not  discern  it.  Later 
I  saw,  and  I  found  then  the  key  to  the  cipher  of 
my  whole  past  life." 

"  Few  persons  go  so  far." 

"  It  has  been  the  fire  of  vanity — that  poor, 
trite,  pitiful  thing  which  I  fancied  belonged  only 
to  an  old-time  Pilgrim's  Progress  notion  of 
things.  It  is  oh,  so  real,  I  have  found,  so  cruel, 
mercenary,  devouring — a  consuming  fire,  start- 
ing too  from  such  a  little  spark.  I  was  not  a 
vain  girl  at  first.  I  was  not  vain  enough,  my 
mother  thought.  I  did  not  care  to  attract  ad- 
miration nor  did  I  miss  it  that  men  did  not  fol- 
low me  as  they  did  others.  Then  some  small 


[  343  ]  CHAP.  XXVIII 

things,  commonplace  at  most,  happened  and  sud- 
denly the  thing  awoke  in  me  like  a  hungry  ani- 
mal, the  passion  for  admiration,  and  sought  its 
own  satisfaction  and  cared  for  nothing  else  at 
heart.  Year  by  year  it  grew  bolder,  more  reck- 
less, more  tyrannous.  My  very  marriage  was 
based  upon  the  soothing  of  my  pride,  before 
that  wounded.  Why  was  there  no  one,  Dr. 
Kirke,  in  those  years  to  warn  me?  No  one  to 
tell  me  that  but  one  life  was  mine,  and  that  if 
I  gave  that  to  the  sense  I  could  not  give  it  to 
the  spirit?  That  if  I  gave  it  to  the  flesh  I  must 
taste  the  bitterness  of  corruption,  as  I  have 
done  ?  It  all  seemed  so  light  and  harmless  then. 
Sometimes,  in  these  later  years,  I  have  fairly 
hated  this  body,  these  senses — for  they  have 
devoured  all  the  glories  and  delights  of  earth, 
and  sky  in  their  coarse,  selfish  greed  of  lux- 
ury." 

"  You  overrate  this.  You  have  been  consid- 
ered a  woman  of  intellectual  and  artistic  tastes, 
always." 

"  Yes,  and  it  was  in  me  to  be  that  and  more. 


CHAP.  XXVIII  [  344  ] 

I  have  some  good  capacities.  But,  Dr.  Kirke, 
you  can  not  understand  a  woman.  Even  the 
things  which  came  through  these  higher  chan- 
nels, the  beauty  of  art,  of  poetry,  all  the  esthetic 
life,  were  in  the  end  captured  as  booty  by  this 
tyrant  of  vanity.  I  decked  my  body,  my  mind, 
my  stage,  with  them  as  accessories  to  myself,  the 
more  to  win  praise  and  draw  the  men  who  met 
me  to  my  feet.  So  I  cheapened  the  best  things 
of  life,  yes,  the  very  best,  for  I  even  turned  the 
sacred  privileges  of  Christ's  Church  to  the  com- 
merce of  self-advancement.  How  base,  how  ter- 
rible it  sounds,  but  it  is  bare  truth !  Irving  and 
I  joined  that  church  in  Boston  simply  because 
we  thought  it  would  help  us  to  gain  position, 
money." 

"  Did  any  one  ever  talk  to  you  about  re- 
ligion?" 

"  Mr.  Owen  certainly  never  did.  No,  I  think 
no  one.  When  I  was  a  girl  I  caught  up  a  super- 
ficial habit,  common  at  my  age  perhaps,  of  ridi- 
culing and  mocking  the  old  forms  of  thought 
and  speech  and  practise  common  to  the  Chris- 


[  345  ]  CHAP.  XXVIII 

tian  people.  But  do  you  know,  Dr.  Kirke,  com- 
pared with  the  vulgarity,  the  crass,  sordid  mean- 
ness of  a  soulless  life,  such  as  mine  has  been,  the 
humblest,  quaintest  old  colored  mammy  down 
here  who  cherishes  her  religion  as  her  chief 
good,  is  a  spiritual  aristocrat !  Compared  with 
the  mercenary  maxims  of  the  world  in  which  I 
have  lived,  the  tritest  phrases  of  those  old  re- 
ligionists seem  stately  and  splendid,  for  what- 
ever they  missed,  they  always  spoke  of  two 
things — the  soul  and  God.  These  were  left  out 
in  my  program  of  life.  Self,  sense,  the  pride  of 
life,  took  their  place." 

"  You  have  drawn  a  great  arraignment — less 
of  yourself  than  of  a  prevalent  type,  however. 
I  warn  you  that  I  shall  not  accept  it  for  a  mo- 
ment as  an  argument  on  your  side." 

"Wait  until  you  see  how  it  fared  with  me 
when  I  met — Boss  Kimball." 
"  You  were  in  danger  then." 
"  And  you  perceived  it?    When,  first!  " 
"  That    night    at    the    Club    reception.     I 
watched  the  man  while  he  danced  with  you." 


CHAP.  XXVIII  [  346  ] 

"  Was  it  you  who  sent  your  sister  to  me, 
with  that  warning  1 " 

"  We  agreed  together  to  compass  your  pro- 
tection, if  it  was  in  our  power." 

"  And  that  was  when  you  did  not  like  me  1 " 

"  Yes.  But  no  man  was  ever  indifferent  to 
you,  Sidney." 

"And  on  shipboard.  Did  you  dislike  me 
then?" 

"  No,  but  you  depressed  me.  I  will  tell  you 
frankly,  at  that  time  I  feared  the  nature  of  your 
relation  to  Ross  Kimball.  That  was  before  I 
knew  you." 

"  It  is  not  strange." 

"Before  the  voyage  was  over  I  was  con- 
vinced of  my  mistake.  Sarah  and  I  made  up 
our  minds  deliberately  then  to  surround  you, 
unknown  to  yourself,  with  all  the  defense  and 
guarding  we  could  devise.  You  helped  us  by 
opening  the  way  to  a  possible  basis  for  better 
acquaintance." 

"  Then,  Dr.  Kirke,  it  was  I  who  was  being 
led  gently  along  when  I  fancied  it  was  you  1  It 


[  347  ]  CHAP.  XXVIII 

would  be  amusing  if  it  were  not  so  dreadful.  So 
it  was  I  who  was  being  encompassed,  after  all !  " 

"In  a  sense.  You  must  not  sit  here  any 
longer,  Sidney.  This  heavy  dew  is  making  your 
clothing  damp.  Shall  we  walk  back?  " 

"  Oh,  what  a  guardian  angel  Sarah  Kirke 
has  been  to  me !  " 

"  Sarah  has  been  no  more  an  angel  than  I. 
Who  do  you  suppose  stood  guard  that  night 
while  you  were  up  in  that  infernal  tower-room 
of  Ross  Kimbairs?" 

"  Dr.  Kirke !  How  can  you  have  known  ?  I 
supposed  the  existence  of  that  room  an  abso- 
lute secret." 

He  shook  his  head.  "  There  was  mischief 
abroad  that  night.  It  was  in  the  air.  It  was  in 
that  man's  face  when  he  watched  you.  It  was  in 
the  exuberance  of  your  own  spirit.  You  were 
thrillingly  dangerous  that  night  to  the  sense  of 
a  man;  what  was  more,  you  were  self -intoxi- 
cated." 

I  was  startled  and  no  wonder.  Nothing  had 
escaped  this  man's  vision,  it  seemed. 


CHAP.  XXVIII  [  348  ] 

"  I  was  wholly  ignorant  of  the  existence  of 
that  room,  but  I  was  not  so  ignorant  of  the 
workings  of  Kimball's  mind.  I  have  known  him 
well  in  the  past,  much  better  than  he  has  sup- 
posed. I  was  convinced  that  that  night  of  tri- 
umph would  not  pass  without  a  diabolical  effort 
on  his  part  to  win  from  you  some  crucial  token 
or  promise.  I  went  there  only  because  I  be- 
lieved you  would  need  some  one  to  guard  you. 
There  was  little,  however,  that  I  could  do." 

"  Tell  me  all,  Dr.  Kirke.  I  guessed  after- 
ward that  you  had  watched  me  for  some  reason, 
and  like  the  idiot  I  was,  I  resented  it." 

"  I  remember,"  and  he  smiled  drily.  "  Yes, 
I  watched  you  systematically,  determined  not  to 
leave  you  undefended  one  moment  while  you 
were  in  that  house.  So  it  happened  that  I  was 
on  the  north  terrace  with  my  eyes  wide  open 
when  you  went  up  to  the  second  floor  of  the 
tower.  And  I  came  around  and  listened  for 
your  return  by  that  outer  door  on  the  south  ter- 
race. As  I  listened  I  did  the  only  other  thing 
for  you  in  my  power.  I  prayed.  I  believed  that 


[  349  ]  CHAP.  XXVIII 

if  all  were  well  you  would  return  by  the  way  you 
went,  and  very  soon.  You  were  gone  a  little 
more  than  eight  minutes." 

"  Yes,  that  is  precise." 

"  But  you  came  back  by  the  wrong  way.  If 
you  had  been  gone  ten  minutes  you  would  have 
heard  a  knocking  like  the  knocking  in  Macbeth 
on  that  door.  But  when  I  heard  the  knob  turn 
I  crossed  rapidly  in  the  shadow  to  the  great 
south  entrance  and  awaited  you  there.  You  may 
remember." 

"  Perfectly." 

"  Why  are  you  crying  so  ? " 

"  To  think  you  were  so  watching  over  me  in 
that  awful  time." 

"  I  saw  your  face  as  I  stopped  your  flying 
feet.  I  saw  signs  of  a  mortal  battle.  Oh,  Sid- 
ney ! "  and  he  ground  his  teeth.  "  And  I  had 
stood  down  there  like  a  stock  or  stone,  unable 
to  lift  my  hand!  I  have  never  known  what  I 
said  when  I  stopped  you,  your  face  put  me  in 
such  a  rage.  My  only  thought  was  to  let  you 
know  that  you  could  summon  me  if  you  were 


CHAP.  XXVIII  [  35O  ] 

still  in  need.  Then  presently  I  saw  you  drive 
away  and  thanked  God  that  at  last  you  were 
safe." 

"  Dr.  Kirke,  you  spoke  just  now  of  that  un- 
known room  above  the  library.  That  room  had 
been  prepared  for  clandestine  visits  from  me. 
If  you  had  seen  it  you  could  better  under- 
stand." 

"  I  have  seen  it.  I  understand.  Let  my  part 
go  till  later,  though." 

"  Ah,  then  you  know  the  terrible  beauty  of  it, 
how  the  man  had  calculated  each  smallest  detail 
to  make  an  irresistible  appeal  to  my  sense.  He 
was  so  sure  of  my  love  of  luxury  and  my  love  of 
using  my  power  over  him — the  Lilith  side  of 
me!" 

"The  devil!" 

"  Was  ever  deeper  shame  than  this  complete 
confidence  of  his  ?  I  believe  in  all  his  elaborate 
preparation  he  never  doubted  the  issue." 

"  He  is  accustomed  to  succeed  in  all  he  un- 
dertakes. That  makes  a  man  insolent." 

"But  don't  you  see,  Dr.  Kirke,  that  Ross 


[  351  ]  CHAP.  XXVIII 

Kimball  is  too  prudent  a  man  and  too  intelli- 
gent to  have  done  all  that  with  no  reason  ?  Now, 
surgeon,  the  wound  is  open  for  you  to  probe  to 
its  very  core.  He  was  justified  in  his  estimate 
of  me  by  what  had  gone  before  between  us.  I 
had  let  him  say  things,  look  things,  which  no 
true  wife  permits  a  man  to  say  to  her  or  to 
look." 

My  voice  had  sunk  to  a  trembling  whisper. 
Dr.  Kirke  simply  bent  his  head  and  waited. 
We  were  standing  now  on  the  hither  edge  of  the 
pines,  and  it  was  mercifully  too  dark  for  us  to 
see  each  other's  faces. 

"  Have  I  not  told  you  truly  that  I  have  not 
been  a  good  woman? "  I  continued  mournfully. 
"  I  had  seen  my  danger,  seen  it  from  the  very 
first.  No  woman  could  have  failed  to  see  it, 
whatever  she  might  say.  I  believed  in  myself 
sufficiently  to  dare  to  dally  with  the  danger,  and 
expect  to  escape.  That  was  all." 

"  But  what  was  the  motive,  the  object,  the 
gain?" 

"  Oh,  the  pity  of  it,  the  pity  of  it!    The  infi- 


CHAP.  XXVIII  [  353  ] 

nite  littleness!  Just  the  need  of  money  and 
more  money  for  Irving,  of  name  and  power  and 
position  for  us  both.  Just  the  flattery  of  my 
pride,  the  satisfaction  to  my  vanity  in  having 
this  man  my  thrall." 

"  Did  you  ever  care  for  him !  " 

"  He  satisfied  a  certain  side  of  me,  but  not 
the  side  that  loves.  He  appealed  to  my  taste, 
and  in  a  subtle,  cynical  way  to  my  intellect. 
Most  of  all  I  think  to  my  pride  and  my  love  of 
power.  I  liked  him  that  he  could  control  men, 
I  knew  he  was  not  good,  and  yet  I  let  him  think 
he  could  control  me.  Now  you  must  admit  that 
you  have  not  truly  known  me  or  you  could 
never  have  wished  to  marry  me." 

"  On  the  contrary,  your  spiritual  diagnosis 
of  yourself  coincides  with  what  I  have  always 
known  it  to  be,  Sidney — a  magnificently  natural, 
sensuous  pagan  creature,  with  a  soul  appal- 
lingly slow  in  awakening  to  God.  But  it  has 
awakened  and  God  was  not  too  late.  When  God 
inbreathes  the  breath  of  life  the  man  becomes  a 
living  soul  in  the  highest  sense.  Life  is  just  a 


[  353  ]  CHAP.  XXVIII 

stuff  to  '  try  the  soul's  strength  on,'  you  know — 
to  '  educe  the  man.'  You  have  had  a  bitter 
struggle  and  you  have  won.  But  you  are  trem- 
bling, Sidney.  Do  not  let  us  recall  these  bitter 
memories.  Come,  you  must  not  shiver  so.  We 
will  go  back  to  the  house  now  and  you  shall 
have  a  fire  and  better  cheer." 

A  match  was  struck  and  the  watch  consulted. 

"  It  is  growing  late,  after  nine." 

"  When  must  you  start  for  the  station?  " 

"  At  half-past  ten." 

"  We  will  go  back  then.  There  is  little  more 
to  say,  only  I  wanted  just  to  tell  you  that  when 
I  saw  that  room  and  understood,  God  helped  me 
to  hate  him,  and  myself  and  all  the  foul  taint  of 
the  atmosphere  we  had  been  living  in,  and  I  ran 
for  very  life  away  from  it  all.  Then  I  saw  you 
who  had  been  praying  for  me  to  God." 

"  And  somewhere  on  the  way  you  were  griev- 
ously hurt,  my  poor  Sidney." 

"  Yes,  on  the  stair.  I  was  so  afraid  that  I 
ran,  and  could  not  see  quite  where  I  went,  and 
so  plunged  against  that  cruel  iron  rail." 

23 


CHAP.  XXVIII  [  354  ] 

"  And  all  those  weeks  you  hid  your  pain  and 
your  danger ! " 

"  Yes,  I  was  afraid  of  you.  I  knew  you 
would  divine  something  of  the  truth  whatever 
plea  I  might  make." 

"  Spartan !  You  were  properly  punished  in 
the  end.  Poor  plucky  little  Sidney!  I  wanted 
to  help  you,  but  you  would  not  let  me.  I  used  to 
wish  I  had  you  in  a  hospital,  where  I  would  have 
made  short  work  of  all  your  obstinacy  and  your 
rubbishy  fibbing." 

"But  tell  me  now  how  it  ever  could  have 
chanced  that  you  yourself  saw  that  tower  room. 
Have  they  done  something  with  it  1 " 

"  You  remember  that  afternoon,  I  have 
spoken  of  it  already — when  I  made  that  very 
short  call  toward  night !  " 

"  The  day  before  I  went  to  your  house  ? 
Yes." 

"  That  afternoon,  an  hour  earlier,  I  had  been 
summoned  urgently  and  rather  mysteriously  by 
telephone  to  Ross  Kimball's.  The  man  who  tel- 
ephoned— I  found  afterward  that  it  was  Lit,  the 


[  355  ]  CHAP.  XXVIII 

confidential  valet— asked  me  to  leave  my  car- 
riage in  front  of  the  gates  and  come  on  foot,  if 
I  would,  to  the  small  grade  door  on  the  north  ter- 
race. I  did  so  and  was  admitted  by  Lit  himself. 
He  was  plainly  scared  to  death  for  several  dif- 
ferent reasons,  but  instinct  and  training  had 
been  sufficient  to  make  him  keep  still.  I  was 
taken  up  that  iron  stair  and  into  the  upper 
room.  Of  course,  I  perceived  in  passing,  by  the 
construction,  that  it  was  the  only  room  on  that 
floor  of  the  tower,  and  therefore  I  knew  that  it 
was  to  it  that  Mr.  Kimball  must  have  taken  you 
that  night,  six  weeks  earlier.  The  room  was 
marvelously  lighted  and  'of  the  extraordinary 
beauty  you  know.  I  looked  for  signs  of  confu- 
sion, for  I  saw  at  once  that  Mr.  Kimball  was 
lying  on  the  floor  insensible.  The  only  disorder 
was  a  woman's  gown,  white  silk  I  should  think, 
lying  in  a  careless  heap  in  a  corner,  as  if  it  had 
been  flung  there.  A  pastel  portrait  on  an  easel 
of  a  woman — by  her  pose  and  color  she  instantly 
suggested  you — had  been  cut  several  times 
across  the  face  with  a  sharp  blade.  I  noticed 


CHAP.  XXVIII  [  356  ] 

no  other  disorder.  I  found  Mr.  Kimball  breath- 
ing heavily  and  suffering  from  a  stroke  of  apo- 
plexy, not,  however,  severe.  Lit  had  been  in  the 
library  below  and  had  heard  him  fall.  He  pos- 
sessed pass-keys  to  the  place,  and  so  ran  up  and 
at  once  discovered  his  master's  condition.  That 
was  the  whole  story." 

"  Was  Mr.  Kimball  in  danger?  " 

"  He  could  have  been  easily  enough  if  I  had 
let  him." 

There  was  a  certain  grimness  in  the  reply. 

"  I  also  had  my  moment  of  temptation  in  that 
room,  Sidney." 

There  was  a  mome'nt's  pause. 

"  We  brought  him  out  all  right  in  a  short 
time  and  as  soon  as  he  could  speak  he  began  to 
explain  about  Mrs.  Kimball's  boudoir  which  he 
had  been  fitting  up  himself  with  such  pains  and 
so  forth.  I  picked  up  his  penknife  while  he  was 
talking  and  laid  it  on  the  table.  I  couldn't  stand 
his  lies  very  well  just  then,  and  so  gave  him  to 
understand  that  talking  would  be  sure  death  to 
him.  I  helped  Lit  after  a  little  to  carry  him 


[  357  ]  CHAP.  XXVIII 

down  to  the  library,  and  got  away  as  soon  as  I 
could.  I  had  to  go  back  to  him,  though,  in  the 
evening." 

"  I  read  in  the  paper  after  I  returned  from 
your  house  that  he  had  had  grippe." 

"  Yes.  The  usual  thing.  He  will  have  grippe 
again  by  and  by.  Some  other  doctor  will  have 
the  case,  however." 

We  had  reached  the  house  now  and  soon  had 
taken  our  former  seats  by  the  fire  which  we 
found  burning  cheerily  in  expectation  of  our  re- 
turn. A  mulatto  jewel,  who  had  been  my  occa- 
sional helper  ever  since  we  came  to  Borromeo, 
had  been  retained  for  the  evening.  She  now 
brought  in  coffee  and  we  took  it  together  in 
silence  and  were  glad  of  the  space  to  rest. 

"  Now  then  for  secondly  and  thirdly,"  said 
Dr.  Kirke,  with  a  glance  at  the  clock,  when  we 
were  alone  again.  It  was  twenty  minutes  then, 
I  observed,  before  ten. 

"  I  think  firstly  must  have  been  enough." 

"  Firstly  has  lost  your  case  for  you,  Sidney, 
completely.  I  will  hear  secondly." 


CHAP.  XXVIII  [  358  ] 

"You  will  not  understand  it,  I  know.  A. 
man  could  not.  But  when  I  said  if  I  loved  you 
less  I  would  marry  you  I  meant  exactly  that.  I 
love  you,  as  I  have  for  two  years,  religiously  and 
with  a  power  which  I  think  few  women  ever 
know.  But  I  do  not  think  the  love  I  have  for  you 
is  the  basis  for  marriage.  You  are  so  great  to 
me,  so  exalted,  so  next  to  God,  that  I  fear  you  as 
much  as  I  love  you,  and  that  fear  is — strange,  you 
will  think — a  thing  I  worship  and  cling  to.  My 
love  is  ideal,  impossible  to  sustain  on  the  same 
plane  if  put  to  the  test  of  domesticity ;  I  can  not 
see  it  change  and  decline  to  the  level  of  the  aver- 
age married  life.  I  can  not  bear  to  discover  the 
heel  of  my  great  Achilles.  To  tell  the  truth,  Dr. 
Kirke,  I  think  I  never  had  a  talent  for  marriage. 
The  details  and  demands  of  it  repel  me.  I  pre- 
fer my  own  ascetic  restraint  to  the  larger  con- 
straint which  it  involves.  It  may  be  that  I  am 
supercivilized,  overrefined,  cowardly  even.  You 
will  probably  say  so.  But  I  wish  to  see  you  at 
intervals — not  too  long  if  you  please,  Dr.  Kirke 
— and  I  should  be  pleased  to  think  you  cared  for 


[  359  ]  CHAP.  XXVIII 

me  a  little.  In  any  event  I  shall  love  you  as  I 
have  done.  It  is  my  life.  In  this  way  we  shall 
both  retain  our  illusions ;  and  if  we  have  to  tra- 
verse wide  plains  of  dead  and  dreary  endurance, 
we  shall  at  least  now  and  then,  when  we  meet, 
climb  to  a  summit  of  impossible  joy — like  this !  " 

He  smiled  upon  me  with  exceeding  benevo- 
lence. 

"  I  see.  However,  granting  that  a  husband 
is  always  likely  to  become  a  lost  illusion,  it  is 
certainly  not  so  with  a  child.  It  is  a  thwarting 
of  nature  for  a  woman  of  your  superb  physique 
and  endowment  to  miss  motherhood." 

"  I  have  thought  of  that  too,  but  I  am  more 
afraid  of  that  in  one  way  than  of  the  other." 

"You  can  not  convince  me  that  you  are  a 
coward,  do  your  best." 

"  No,  it  is  not  exactly  that  this  time.  But 
you  see  I  fear  what  you  call  my  endowment.  See 
how  nearly  fatal  it  has  been  to  myself.  I  dare 
not  hand  it  down  with  all  its  pitfalls  and  perils 
to  another  generation." 

"That  is  a  mistaken  view.    You  were  all 


CHAP.  XXVIII  [  36O  ] 

right  at  the  start  if  this  demon  of  vanity  had  not 
been  aroused  in  you,  and  you  had  a  strong  na- 
tive virtue  to  meet  it  with.  A  robust  sensuous- 
ness,  moreover,  is  no  bad  thing  to  graft  upon  the 
old  Puritan  stock.  Go  on.  I  cancel  secondly. 
Let  us  have  thirdly." 

Thirdly  was  to  have  been  my  deep  satisfac- 
tion in  the  simple,  solitary,  nunlike  life  I  had 
been  living  in  Borromeo,  but  as  I  sat  now  with 
the  Doctor's  eyes  resting  full  upon  me  with  their 
brooding  tenderness  I  essayed  to  speak  but  fal- 
tered. A  curious  unreality  and  blight  seemed 
to  have  overtaken  that  life  of  ordered  and  strin- 
gent discipline.  Its  charm  had  fled.  I  did  not 
speak. 

"  There  is  no  thirdly.  Exactly  as  I  expected. 
Very  well  then,  Sidney,  why  should  we  not  be 
married  before  I  take  my  train  t  " 

I  stared  at  him  in  speechless  wonder. 

"  Mr.  Loring  will  be  here  now  in  a  few  min- 
utes. I  asked  him  to  come  for  the  sake  of  the 
walk  back  together,  ostensibly ;  really  because  I 
foresaw  that  we  might  require  his  services." 


[  361  ]  CHAP.  XXVIII 

"  I  do  not  comprehend." 

"  It  is,  however,  very  simple,  very  safe,  very 
beautiful — to  me.  None  of  your  reasons  has  the 
slightest  weight  with  me.  I  decline  to  accept 
them — even  at  the  risk  of  declining  from  my 
present  august  proportions  to  the  paltry  com- 
monplaceness  of  a  husband ;  even  at  the  risk  of 
showing  my  heel — I  wonder  which  one  it  is !  I 
will  promise  to  keep  you  afraid  of  me,  however, 
fast  enough.  There  will  be  no  trouble  about 
that  part  of  it." 

"  Yes,  there  is  your  temper.  But,  Dr.  Kirke, 
I  could  not  be  married  now ! " 

"  I  do  not  ask  you  to  go  with  me,  or  to  an- 
nounce a  marriage.  Sidney,  I  only  ask  the  priv- 
ilege of  the  right  to  protect  you  and  care  for  you. 
I  am  never  without  a  fear  of  trouble  coming  to 
you  again  from  that  same  quarter.  If  it  comes 
you  must  have  a  man  upon  whom  you  dare  to 
call.  I  can  not  leave  you  here  alone  unless  I 
have  the  right  to  defend  you." 

"  I  have  been  afraid." 

"  Naturally  you  have.    But  you  need  not  be 


CHAP.  XXVIII  [  363  ] 

any  more.  Let  our  marriage  take  place  to- 
night; there  is  still  time — and  let  it  remain  un- 
known save  to  ourselves  and  the  witnesses.  I 
will  promise  not  to  intrude  upon  you  in  any 
way  until  summer,  unless  you  call  for  me.  If 
you  need  me,  telegraph.  You  can  teach  your 
school  and  carry  on  this  nun's  life  here,  which 
you  like  so  much,  to  your  heart's  content,  until 
the  term's  end.  When  is  that?  " 

"  The  first  of  June,  Dr.  Kirke." 

"  Then  the  second  of  June  I  will  come  again. 
The  marriage  can  be  announced  and  then,  at 
that  time  I  warn  you  there  will  be  no  escape  for 
you.  I  shall  carry  you  back  with  me  then,  my 
girl.  I  shall  claim  you  forever,  until  death  us 
do  part." 

We  had  risen  and  with  these  words  he  took 
me  in  his  strong,  sheltering  embrace,  and  there 
I  was  glad  at  last  to  rest  without  further  ques- 
tion or  gainsaying.  His  eyes  searched  mine 
solemnly,  profoundly. 

"  And  thereto  I  give  thee  my  troth." 


[  363  ]  CHAP.  XXVIII 

I  could  only  whisper  the  words.  A  long  kiss 
was  given. 

As  I  turned  to  dash  away  the  tears  which 
blinded  my  eyes  a  step  was  heard  by  both  of  us 
on  the  walk.  The  clock  struck  ten.  Dr.  Kirke 
remarked  in  his  most  matter-of-fact  tone, 

"  That  must  be  Loring." 


